GIFT  OF 


//  f> 


SPECIMEN    LETTERS 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED 


ALBERT  S.  COOK 

PROFESSOR  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE  AND  LITERATURE  IN 
YALE  UNIVERSITY 


ALLEN   R.  BENHAM 

FELLOW  IN  ENGLISH  OF  YALE  UNIVERSITY 


GINN   &   COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
ALBERT  S.  COOK  AND  ALLEN  R.  BENHAM 


ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 
56.7 


GINN   &   COMPANY  .  PRO- 
PRIETORS  •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

'  All  letters,  methinks,  should  be  free  and  easy  as  one's  dis- 
course —  not  studied  as  an  oration,  nor  made  up  of  hard  words 
like  a  charm.'  Thus  somewhere  wrote  Dorothy  Osborne  to 
Sir  William  Temple ;  and  if  it  is  familiar  letters  that  we  are 
speaking  of,  we  shall  hardly  venture  to  differ  with  the  fair 
Dorothy.  And  even  as  the  frequenting  of  good  society  tends 
to  impart  an  easy  turn  to  one's  discourse,  so  to  see  how  men 
and  women  of  wit  and  breeding  converse  with  their  intimates 
on  paper  ought  to  preserve  us  from  the  worst  forms  of  clown- 
ishness,  affectation,  stiffness,  or  pedantry.  As  it  is  a  rare 
pleasure  to  receive  a  well-written  letter,  so  it  is  a  rare  accom- 
plishment to  write  such  as  shall  be  at  once  piquant  and  natural, 
cheery  but  not  boisterous,  well  bred  but  not  unduly  ceremoni- 
ous. In  the  letters  which  follow,  we  have  drawn  freely  upon 
writers  who  seem  to  be  at  home  with  their  correspondents,  and 
to  be  pouring  out  their  thoughts,  or  indulging  in  their  sallies, 
without  other  restraint  than  such  as  his  own  nature  imposes 
upon  a  person  of  refinement.  Some  of  these  are  letters  of 
compliment,  others  of  invitation ;  some  are  records  of  travel, 
others  of  a  home-keeping  and  unadventurous  life.  But  with 
all  their  variety,  the  letters  of  this  class  have  a  certain  unpre- 
meditated air  by  which  they  may  easily  be  recognized. 

But  our  selection  has  a  somewhat  wider  range.  Some  of  the 
letters  included  strike  a  deeper  note,  being  elicited  by  sym- 
pathy with  sorrow,  or  serious  concern,  or  indignation.  Some 
are  matter-of-fact,  and  others  have  a  kind  of  stateliness ;  so 
that  while  those  of  lighter  vein  and  more  familiar  temper 


255362 


iv  PREFACE 

predominate,  there  is  no  lack  of  such  as  spring  from  emotion, 
and  even  conviction. 

The  period  covered  by  our  selection  is  approximately  two 
hundred  years,  from  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century 
to  the  present;  and  the  order  is  chronological.  Most  letters 
earlier  than  1 700  would  have  a  somewhat  stiff  and  archaic  air  ; 
in  the  age  of  Anne  a  tincture  of  French  courtliness  and  grace 
manifests  itself  in  England  —  as  in  the  Spectator,  for  example 
—  and  this  is  accordingly  a  convenient  era  from  which  to  draw 
our  earliest  examples. 

In  an  appendix  we  have  added,  for  purposes  of  comparison, 
translations  of  a  few  letters  from  other  tongues :  specimens 
chosen  from  Cicero  and  the  younger  Pliny,  the  best  repre- 
sentatives of  the  species  in  antiquity ;  from  Madame  de 
SeVigne",  perhaps  the  most  famous  letter-writer  among  the 
moderns ;  and  from  Voltaire,  whose  correspondence  alone 
would  have  entitled  him  to  no  mean  rank  among  the  authors 
of  his  century.  The  reply  of  Trajan  to  Pliny's  request  for 
instructions  is  inserted,  partly  as  a  desirable  complement  to 
that  of  Pliny,  partly  because  of  its  historical  interest,  and  partly 
for  its  mingling  of  friendliness  with  imperial  dignity  —  at  once 
a  state  paper  and  an  obliging  note  of  reply. 

Many  of  the  letters  we  have  included  are  of  course  out  of 
copyright.  For  permission  to  use  those  more  recently  pub- 
lished we  are  under  obligation  to  the  courtesy  of  various 
proprietors  :  —  to  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for  the  letter 
by  Huxley  ;  to  Mr.  Aldis  Wright  for  those  by  Fitzgerald  ;  to  the 
present  Lord  Tennyson  for  those  by  his  father  and  that  from 
Emerson  to  the  poet;  to  the  heirs  of  Matthew  Arnold  for 
those  by  him ;  to  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.  for  their  coopera- 
tion in  securing  permissions  in  the  last  three  cases,  and  for 
their  willingness  to  grant  the  right  in  the  case  of  Shuckburgh's 
translation  from  Cicero  \  to  Miss  Helen  Nicolay  for  the  letters 


PREFACE  V 

by  Lincoln,  as  contained  in  Abraham  Lincoln :  Complete 
Works,  edited  by  Nicolay  and  Hay;  to  Professor  A.  V.  G. 
Allen  and  Mr.  Wm.  G.  Brooks  for  those  by  Phillips  Brooks ;  to 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers  of  Samuel  Long- 
fellow's Life  of  H.  W.  Longfellow,  for  those  by  the  poet,  and 
that  from  Hawthorne  to  him ;  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers 
for  those  by  Lowell ;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  those  by 
Stevenson ;  and  to  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin  for  those  by  *  Lewis 
Carroll.'  How  much  the  book  has  been  enriched  by  these 
additions  will  be  evident  at  a  glance,  and  we  desire  to  express 
our  cordial  thanks  for  the  consideration  with  which  our  requests 
have  been  met. 

That  through  ignorance  or  inadvertence  we  have  omitted 
some  letters  which  we  should  have  done  well  to  include  in  our 
collection  we  are  quite  prepared  to  believe ;  and  we  should 
be  grateful  for  suggestions  concerning  such  letters  from  those 
who  may  use  the  book. 

YALE  UNIVERSITY 
January  2,  1905 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  Joseph  Addison  to  Chamberlain  Dashwood     ....  i 

II.  Alexander  Pope  to  Henry  Cromwell 2 

III.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  to  her  Sister      ....  2 

IV.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  to  her  Sister      ....  4 
V.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  to  Lady  Rich     ....  7 

VI.  Jonathan  Swift  to  Joseph  Addison 9 

VII.  Thomas  Gray  to  his  Mother 10 

VIII.  Thomas  Gray  to  his  Mother 12 

IX.  William  Shenstone  to  Mr.  Jago 14 

X.  James  Wolfe  to  his  Mother 16 

XL  Benjamin  Franklin  to  Peter  Collinson 18 

XII.  Samuel  Johnson  to  Lord  Chesterfield 19 

XIII.  Benjamin  Franklin  to  his  Wife 21 

XIV.  Horace  Walpole  to  George  Montagu 21 

XV.  Thomas  Gray  to  William  Mason 23 

XVI.  Horace  Walpole  to  the  Earl  of  Strafford 23 

XVII.  Horace  Walpole  to  George  Montagu 24 

XVIII.  Thomas  Gray  to  William  Mason 26 

XIX.  Benjamin  Franklin  to  Mr.  Strahan 27 

XX.  Samuel  Johnson  to  Mrs.  Boswell 27 

XXI.  Benjamin  Franklin  to  George  Washington      ....  28 

XXII.  William  Cowper  to  Mrs.  Cowper 29 

XXIII.  William  Cowper  to  William  Unwin 30 

XXIV.  William  Cowper  to  Joseph  Hill 32 

XXV.  William  Cowper  to  John  Newton 33 

XXVI.  Horace  Walpole  to  Sir  Horace  Mann 35 

XXVII.  William  Cowper  to  Lady  Hesketh 36 

XXVIII.  William  Cowper  to  Lady  Hesketh 38 

XXIX.  George  Washington  to  Dr.  John  Cochran 40 

XXX.  Horatio  Nelson  to  Mrs.  Nelson 41 

XXXI.  Robert  Southey  to  C.  W.  W.  Wynn 42 

XXXII.  Charles  Lamb  to  Robert  Southey 43 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XXXIII.  Charles  Lamb  to  William  Wordsworth    .....  44 

XXXIV.  Bishop  Heber  to  his  Mother 46 

XXXV.  Robert  Southey  to  his  Brother  Thomas 52 

XXXVI.  Lord  Byron  to  Henry  Drury 54 

XXXVII.  Jane  Austen  to  her  Sister 55 

XXXVIII.  Samuel  Rogers  to  Thomas  Moore 57 

XXXIX.  Jane  Austen  to  her  Niece 61 

XL.  John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 61 

XLI.  P.  B.  Shelley  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborne 63 

XLII.  John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 64 

XLIII.  John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 66 

XLIV.  Robert  Southey  to  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel  Southey  67 

XLV.  Charles  Lamb  to  Bernard  Barton 70 

XLVI.  Charles  Lamb  to  Mr.  Patmore 72 

XLVII.  Arthur  Hallam  to  Emily  Tennyson 74 

XLVIII.  Charles  Lamb  to  Mr.  Moxon 75 

XLIX.  Thomas  Hood  to  his  Daughter 76 

L.  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson      ....  77 

LI.  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson      ....  79 

LII.  Henry  W.  Longfellow  to  his  Father 81 

LIII.  Thomas  Hood  to  Charles  Dickens 83 

LI V.  Thomas  Hood  to  May  Elliot 84 

LV.  James  R.  Lowell  to  Miss  L.  L.  White 85 

LVI.  Washington  Irving  to  Mrs.  Parish 88 

LVII.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  to  Henry  W.  Longfellow    .     .  89 

LVIII.  James  R.  Lowell  to  W.  J.  Stillman 90 

LIX.  Charles  Dickens  to  Mark  Lemon 93 

LX.  Phillips  Brooks  to  his  Brother  George 94 

LXI.  Phillips  Brooks  to  his  Brother  William 95 

LXII.  Abraham  Lincoln  to  Horace  Greeley 97 

LXIII.  Abraham  Lincoln  to  Joseph  Hooker 98 

LXIV.  Abraham  Lincoln  to  U.  S.  Grant 99 

LXV.  Abraham  Lincoln  to  Mrs.  Bixby       .......  100 

LXVI.  Dr.  Livingstone  to  his  Daughter  Agnes 100 

LXVII.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Mother 102 

LXVIII.  Thomas  Huxley  to  Matthew  Arnold 104 

LXIX.  Lewis  Carroll  to  Isabel .     . J  .  105 

LXX.  Alfred  Tennyson  to  John  White 105 

LXXI.  Phillips  Brooks  to  Weir  Mitchell 106 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

LXXII.  Matthew  Arnold  to  his  Mother 109 

LXXIIL  R.  W.  Emerson  to  Alfred  Tennyson no 

LXXIV.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Father no 

LXXV.  Henry  W.  Longfellow  to  Alfred  Tennyson     .     .     .  112 

LXXVI.  Matthew  Arnold  to  his  Sister 113 

LXXVII.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  W.  E.  Henley 114 

LXXVIII.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Charles  Baxter 116 

LXXIX.  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson  .     .     .     .  116 

LXXX.  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  W.  F.  Pollock 118 

LXXXI.  Phillips  Brooks  to  Charles  D.  Cooper    ...          .118 

LXXXII.  Lewis  Carroll  to  Mrs.  Hargreaves 121 

LXXXIII.  James  R.  Lowell  to  C.  E.  Norton 121 

LXXXI V.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Mother      • 123 

LXXXV.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin 123 

LXXXVI.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Tom  Archer 124 

LXXXVII.  James  R.  Lowell  to  the  Misses  Lawrence  ....  127 

LXXXVIII.  Ellen  G.  Starr  to  Sidney 129 


APPENDIX 

I.    Cicero  to  his  Wife  and  Family  in  Rome  ....          .     .  135 

II.    Pliny  to  Fuscus .  137 

III.  Pliny  to  the  Emperor  Trajan 138 

IV.  Trajan  to  Pliny 141 

V.    Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter 142 

VI.    Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter 143 

VII.    Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter .     .  145 

VIII.    Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter 147 

IX.    Voltaire  to  Rousseau 149 

INDEX 155 


SPECIMEN   LETTERS 


JosepJi  Addison  to  Chamberlain  Dashwood 

DEAR  SIR  :  Geneva'  Jul^  '702' 

About  three  days  ago  Mr.  Bocher  put  a  very  pretty  snuff- 
box in  my  hand.  I  was  not  a  little  pleased  to  hear  that  it 
belonged  to  myself,  and  was  much  more  so  when  I  found  it 
was  a  present  from  a  gentleman  that  I  have  so  great  an  honor 
for.  You  did  not  probably  foresee  that  it  would  draw  on  the 
trouble  of  a  letter,  but  you  must  blame  yourself  for  it.  For 
my  part,  I  can  no  more  accept  of  a  snuff-box  without  returning 
my  acknowledgments,  than  I  can  take  snuff  without  sneezing 
after  it.  This  last  I  must  own  to  you  is  so  great  an  absurdity 
that  I  should  be  ashamed  to  confess  it,  were  I  not  in  hopes  of 
correcting  it  very  speedily.  I  am  observed  to  have  my  box 
oftener  in  my  hand  than  those  that  have  been  used  to  one 
these  twenty  years,  for  I  can't  forbear  taking  it  out  of  my 
pocket  whenever  I  think  of  Mr.  Dashwood.  You  know  Mr. 
Bays  recommends  snuff  as  a  great  provocative  to  wit,  but  you 
may  produce  this  letter  as  a  standing  evidence  against  him. 
I  have  since  the  beginning  of  it  taken  above  a  dozen  pinches, 
and  still  find  myself  much  more  inclined  to  sneeze  than  to  jest. 
From  whence  I  conclude  that  wit  and  tobacco  are  not  insep- 
arable, or,  to  make  a  pun  of  it,  tho'  a  man  may  be  master  of  a 

snuff-box, 

Non  cuicunque  datum  est  habere  nasum.1 

l  Mart.  i.  42.  18.  — EDS. 


2  PGPE   TO   HENRY   CROMWELL 

I  should  be  afraid  of  being  thought  a  pedant  for  my  quotation, 
did  not  I  know  that  the  gentleman  I  am  writing  to  always 
carries  a  Horace  in  his  pocket.    But  whatever  you  may  think 
me,  pray,  Sir,  do  me  the  justice  to  esteem  me 
Your  most,  etc. 

II 
Alexander  Pope  to  Henry  Cromwell 

April  17,  1708. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  in  this  letter,  but  I  was  resolved 
to  write  to  tell  you  so.  Why  should  not  I  content  myself  with 
so  many  great  examples  of  deep  divines,  profound  casuists, 
grave  philosophers,  .who  have  written  not  letters  only,  but 
whole  tomes  and  voluminous  treatises  about  nothing?  Why 
should  a  fellow  like  me,  who  all  his  life  does  nothing,  be 
ashamed  to  write  nothing?  and  that  to  one  who  has  nothing 
to  do  but  to  read  it  ?  But  perhaps  you  will  say  :  '  The  whole 
world  has  something  to  do,  something  to  talk  of,  something  to 
wish  for,  something  to  be  employed  about ' ;  but  pray,  Sir,  cast 
up  the  account,  put  all  these  things  together,  and  what  is  the 
sum  total  but  just  nothing?  I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  to 
desire  you  to  give  my  service  —  that  is,  nothing  —  to  your 
friends,  and  to  believe  that  I  am  nothing  more  than  your,  etc. 

Ex  nihilo  nil  fit.  —  Lucr. 
Ill 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  to  her  Sister 

Rotterdam,  Aug.  3  [O.S.],  1716. 

I  flatter  myself,  dear  sister,  that  I  shall  give  you  some 
pleasure  in  letting  you  know  that  I  have  safely  passed  the  sea, 


LADY   MONTAGU   TO   HER   SISTER  3 

though  we  had  the  ill  fortune  of  a  storm.  We  were  persuaded 
by  the  captain  of  the  yacht  to  set  out4  in  a  calm,  and  he  pre- 
tended there  was  nothing  so  easy  as  to  tide  it  over ;  but  after 
two  days  slowly  moving,  the  wind  blew  so  hard  that  none  of 
the  sailors  could  keep  their  feet,  and  we  were  all  Sunday  night 
tossed  very  handsomely.  I  never  saw  a  man  more  frighted 
than  the  captain.  For  my  part,  I  have  been  so  lucky  neither 
to  suffer  from  fear  nor  seasickness ;  though  I  confess  I  was  so 
impatient  to  see  myself  once  more  upon  dry  land  that  I  would 
not  stay  till  the  yacht  could  get  to  Rotterdam,  but  went  in  the 
long  boat  to  Helvoetsluys,  where  we  had  voitures  to  carry  us 
to  the  Briel.  I  was  charmed  with  the  neatness  of  that  little 
town  ;  but  my  arrival  at  Rotterdam  presented  me  a  new  scene 
of  pleasure.  All  the  streets  are  paved  with  broad  stones,  and 
before  many  of  the  meanest  artificers'  doors  are  placed  seats 
of  various-colored  marbles,  so  neatly  kept  that  I'll  assure  you 
I  walked  almost  all  over  the  town  yesterday,  incognito,  in  my 
slippers,  without  receiving  one  spot  of  dirt ;  and  you  may  see 
the  Dutch  maids  washing  the  pavement  of  the  street  with  more 
application  than  ours  do  our  bedchambers.  The  town  seems 
so  full  of  people,  with  such  busy  faces  all  in  motion,  that  I 
can  hardly  fancy  it  is  not  some  celebrated  fair;  but  I  see  it 
is  every  day  the  same.  It  is  certain  no  town  can  be  more 
advantageously  situated  for  commerce.  Here  are  seven  large 
canals,  on  which  the  merchants'  ships  come  up  to  the  very 
doors  of  their  houses.  The  shops  and  warehouses  are  of  a 
surprising  neatness  and  magnificence,  filled  with  an  incredible 
quantity  of  fine  merchandise,  and  so  much  cheaper  than  what 
we  see  in  England  that  I  have  much  ado  to  persuade  myself  I 
am  still  so  near  it.  Here  is  neither  dirt  nor  beggary  to  be  seen. 
One  is  not  shocked  with  those  loathsome  cripples  so  com- 
mon in  London,  nor  teased  with  the  importunity  of  idle  fellows 
and  wenches,  that  choose  to  be  nasty  and  lazy.  The  common 


4  LADY    MONTAGU   TO   HER   SISTER 

servants  and  little  shopwomen  here  are  more  nicely  clean  than 
most  of  our  ladies,  and  the  great  variety  of  neat  dresses  — 
every  woman  dressing  her  head  after  her  own  fashion  —  is  an 
additional  pleasure  in  seeing  the  town.  You  see  hitherto  I 
make  no  complaints,  dear  sister,  and  if  I  continue  to  like 
traveling  as  well  as  I  do  at  present,  I  shall  not  repent  my 
project.  It  will  go  a  great  way  in  making  me  satisfied  with  it 
if  it  affords  me  an  opportunity  of  entertaining  you.  But  it  is 
not  from  Holland  that  you  must  expect  a  disinterested  offer. 
I  can  write  enough  in  the  style  of  Rotterdam  to  tell  you  plainly 
in  one  word  that  I  expect  returns  of  all  the  London  news. 
You  see  I  have  already  learnt  to  make  a  good  bargain,  and 
that  it  is  not  for  nothing  I  will  so  much  as  tell  you  I  am 
Your  affectionate  sister. 


IV 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  to  her  Sister 

Vienna,  Sept.  8  [O.S.],  1716. 

I  am  now,  my  dear  sister,  safely  arrived  at  Vienna,  and,  I 
thank  God,  have  not  at  all  suffered  in  my  health,  nor  —  what 
is  dearer  to  me  —  in  that  of  my  child,  by  all  our  fatigues.  We 
traveled  by  water  from  Ratisbon,  a  journey  perfectly  agreeable, 
down  the  Danube,  in  one  of  those  little  vessels  that  they  very 
properly  call  wooden  houses,  having  in  them  all  the  conven- 
iences of  a  palace — stoves  in  the  chambers,  kitchens,  etc.  They 
are  rowed  by  twelve  men  each,  and  move  with  such  an  incredi- 
ble swiftness  that  in  the  same  day  you  have  the  pleasure  of 
a  vast  variety  of  prospects,  and  within  the  space  of  a  few  hours 
you  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  populous  city,  adorned  with 
magnificent  palaces,  and  the  most  romantic  solitudes,  which 
appear  distant  from  the  commerce  of  mankind,  the  banks  of 


LADY   MONTAGU   TO   HER  SISTER  5 

the  Danube  being  charmingly  diversified  with  woods,  rocks, 
mountains  covered  with  vines,  fields  of  corn,  large  cities,  and 
ruins  of  ancient  castles.  I  saw  the  great  towns  of  Passau 
and  Linz,  famous  for  the  retreat  of  the  Imperial  Court  when 
Vienna  was  besieged.  This  town,  which  has  the  honor  of 
being  the  emperor's  residence,  did  not  at  all  answer  my  ex- 
pectation nor  ideas  of  it,  being  much  less  than  I  expected  to 
find  it ;  the  streets  are  very  close,  and  so  narrow  one  cannot 
observe  the  fine  fronts  of  the  palaces,  though  many  of  them 
very  well  deserve  observation,  being  truly  magnificent.  They 
are  all  built  of  fine  white  stone,  and  are  excessive  l  high ;  for 
as  the  town  is  too  little  for  the  number  of  people  that  desire 
to  live  in  it,  the  builders  seem  to  have  projected  to  repair  that 
misfortune  by  clapping  one  town  on  the  top  of  another,  most 
of  the  houses  being  of  five,  and  some  of  them  of  six,  stories. 
You  may  easily  imagine  that,  the  streets  being  so  narrow,  the 
rooms  are  extremely  dark,  and,  what  is  an  inconvenience  much 
more  intolerable  in  my  opinion,  there  is  no  house  that  has  so 
few  as  five  or  six  families  in  it.  The  apartments  of  the  greatest 
ladies,  and  even  of  the  ministers  of  state,  are  divided  but 
by  a  partition  from  that  of  a  tailor  or  shoemaker,  and  I  know 
nobody  that  has  above  two  floors  in  any  house  —  one  for  their 
own  use,  and  one  higher  for  their  servants.  Those  that  have 
houses  of  their  own  let  out  the  rest  of  them  to  whoever  will  take 
them,  and  thus  the  great  stairs  —  which  are  all  of  stone  —  are 
as  common  and  as  dirty  as  the  street.  It  is  true,  when  you 
have  once  traveled  through  them,  nothing  can  be  more  sur- 
prisingly magnificent  than  the  apartments.  They  are  com- 
monly a  suite  of  eight  or  ten  large  rooms,  all  inlaid,  the  doors 
and  windows  richly  carved  and  gilt,  and  the  furniture  such 
as  is  seldom  seen  in  the  palaces  of  sovran  princes  in  other 
countries.  Their  apartments  are  adorned  with  hangings  of  the 

1  So  in  the  original.  —  EDS. 


6  LADY    MONTAGU   TO   HER   SISTER 

finest  tapestry  of  Brussels,  prodigious  large  looking-glasses  in 
silver  frames,  fine  Japan  tables,  beds,  chairs,  canopies,  and  win- 
dow-curtains of  the  richest  Genoa  damask  or  velvet,  almost 
covered  with  gold  lace  or  embroidery.  All  this  is  made  gay 
by  pictures  and  vast  jars  of  Japan  china,  and  large  lustres  of 
rock  crystal.  I  have  already  had  the  honor  of  being  invited 
to  dinner  by  several  of  the  first  people  of  quality,  and  I  must 
do  them  the  justice  to  say,  the  good  taste  and  magnificence  of 
their  tables  very  well  answer  to  that  of  their  furniture.  I  have 
been  more  than  once  entertained  with  fifty  dishes  of  meat,  all 
served  in  silver,  and  well  dressed  ;  the  dessert  proportionable, 
served  in  the  finest  china.  But  the  variety  and  richness  of 
their  wines  is  what  appears  the  most  surprising ;  the  constant 
way  is  to  lay  a  list  of  their  names  upon  the  plates  of  the  guests 
along  with  the  napkins,  and  I  have  counted  several  times  to 
the  number  of  eighteen  different  sorts,  all  exquisite  in  their 
kinds.  I  was  yesterday  at  Count  Schoonbourn  the  Vice-Chan- 
cellor's garden,  where  I  was  invited  to  dinner.  I  must  own 
I  never  saw  a  place  so  perfectly  delightful  as  the  Faubourg 
of  Vienna.  It  is  very  large,  and  almost  wholly  composed  of 
delicious  palaces.  If  the  emperor  found  it  proper  to  permit 
the  gates  of  the  town  to  be  laid  open,  that  the  Faubourgs 
might  be  joined  to  it,  he  would  have  one  of  the  largest  and 
best-built  cities  in  Europe.  Count  Schoonbourn's  villa  is  one 
of  the  most  magnificent;  the  furniture  all  rich  brocades,  so 
well  fancied  and  fitted  up  nothing  can  look  more  gay  and 
splendid ;  not  to  speak  of  a  gallery  full  of  rarities  of  coral, 
mother-of-pearl,  and  throughout  the  whole  house  a  profusion 
of  gilding,  carving,  fine  paintings,  the  most  beautiful  porcelain, 
statues  of  alabaster  and  ivory,  and  vast  orange-  and  lemon-trees 
in  gilt  pots.  The  dinner  was  perfectly  fine  and  well  ordered, 
and  made  still  more  agreeable  by  the  good  humor  of  the  Count. 
I  have  not  yet  been  at  court,  being  forced  to  stay  for  my  gown, 


LADY    MONTAGU    TO    LADY    RICH  7 

without  which  there  is  no  waiting  on  the  Empress ;  though  I 
am  not  without  great  impatience  to  see  a  beauty  that  has  been 
the  admiration  of  so  many  different  nations.  When  I  have 
had  the  honor,  I  will  not  fail  to  let  you  know  my  real  thoughts, 
always  taking  a  particular  pleasure  in  communicating  them  to 
my  dear  sister. 

V 

Lady  Mary  Wort  ley  Montagu  to  Lady  Rich 

Adrianople,  April  i  [O.S.],  1717. 

I  am  now  got  into  a  new  world,  where  everything  I  see 
appears  to  me  a  change  of  scene,  and  I  will  write  to  your 
ladyship  with  some  content  of  mind,  hoping  at  least  that  you 
will  find  the  charm  of  novelty  in  my  letters,  and  no  longer 
reproach  me  that  I  tell  you  nothing  extraordinary.  I  will  not 
trouble  you  with  a  relation  of  our  tedious  journey ;  but  I  must 
not  omit  what  I  saw  remarkable  at  Sophia,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  towns  in  the  Turkish  Empire,  and  famous  for  its  hot 
baths,  that  are  resorted  to  both  for  diversion  and  health.  I 
stopped  here  one  day,  on  purpose  to  see  them ;  and  designing 
to  go  incognito,  I  hired  a  Turkish  coach.  These  voitures *  are 
not  at  all  like  ours,  but  much  more  convenient  for  the  country, 
the  heat  being  so  great  that  glasses  would  be  very  troublesome. 
They  are  made  a  good  deal  in  the  manner  of  the  Dutch  stage- 
coaches, having  wooden  lattices  painted  with  baskets  and 
nosegays  of  flowers,  intermixed  commonly  with  little  poetical 
mottoes.  They  are  covered  all  over  with  scarlet  cloth,  lined 
with  silk,  and  very  often  richly  embroidered  and  fringed.  This 
covering  entirely  hides  the  persons  in  them,  but  may  be  thrown 
back  at  pleasure,  and  thus  permit  the  ladies  to  peep  through 
the  lattices.  They  hold  four  people  very  conveniently,  seated 
on  cushions,  but  not  raised. 

1  Carriages.  —  EDS. 


8  LADY    MONTAGU    TO   LADY   RICH 

In  one  of  these  covered  wagons  I  went  to  the  bagnio  about 
ten  o'clock.  It  was  already  full  of  women.  It  is  built  of  stone, 
in  the  shape  of  a  dome,  with  no  windows  but  in  the  roof,  which 
gives  light  enough.  There  were  five  of  these  domes  joined 
together,  the  outmost  being  less  than  the  rest,  and  serving 
only  as  a  hall,  where  the  portress  stood  at  the  door.  Ladies 
of  quality  generally  give  this  woman  a  crown  or  ten  shillings, 
and  I  did  not  forget  that  ceremony.  The  next  room  is  a  very 
large  one,  paved  with  marble,  and  all  round  it  are  two  raised 
sofas  of  marble,  one  above  another.  There  were  four  fountains 
of  cold  water  in  this  room,  falling  first  into  marble  basin's,  and 
then  running  on  the  floor  in  little  channels  made  for  that  pur- 
pose, which  carried  the  streams  into  the  next  room,  something 
less  than  this,  with  the  same  sort  of  marble  sofas,  but  so  hot 
with  streams  of  sulphur,  proceeding  from  the  baths  joining  to 
it,  it  was  impossible  to  stay  there  with  one's  clothes  on.  The 
two  other  domes  were  the  hot  baths,  one  of  which  had  cocks 
of  cold  water  turning  into  it,  to  temper  it  to  what  degree  of 
warmth  the  bathers  pleased  to  have. 

I  was  in  my  traveling  habit,  which  is  a  riding-dress,  and 
certainly  appeared  very  extraordinary  to  them.  Yet  there 
was  not  one  of  them  that  showed  the  least  surprise  or  imper- 
tinent curiosity,  but  received  me  with  all  the  obliging  civility 
possible.  I  know  no  European  court  where  the  ladies  would 
have  behaved  themselves  in  so  polite  a  manner  to  such  a 
stranger.  I  believe,  upon  the  whole,  there  were  two  hundred 
women,  and  yet  none  of  those  disdainful  smiles  and  satirical 
whispers  that  never  fail  in  our  assemblies,  when  anybody  appears 
that  is  not  dressed  exactly  in  the  fashion. 


SWIFT   TO   ADDISON  9 

VI 
Jonathan  Szvift  to  Joseph  Addis  on 

Dublin,  July  9,  1717. 

I  should  be  much  concerned  if  I  did  not  think  you  were  a 
little  angry  with  me  for  not  congratulating  you  upon  being 
Secretary.  But  I  choose  my  time,  as  I  would  to  visit  you, 
when  all  your  company  is  gone.  I  am  confident  you  have 
given  ease  of  mind  to  many  thousand  people,  who  will  never 
believe  any  ill  can  be  intended  to  the  Constitution  in  Church 
or  State  while  you  are  in  so  high  a  trust ;  and  I  should  have 
been  of  the  same  opinion,  though  I  had  not  the  happiness  to 
know  you. 

I  am  extremely  obliged  for  your  kind  remembrance  some 
months*  ago  by  the  Bishop  of  Derry,  and  for  your  generous 
intentions,  if  you  had  come  to  Ireland,  to  have  made  party 
give  way  to  friendship  by  continuing  your  acquaintance.  I 
examine  my  heart,  and  can  find  no  other  reason  why  I  write 
to  you  now  besides  that  great  love  and  esteem  I  have  always 
had  for  you.  I  have  nothing  to  ask  you  either  for  any  friend 
or  for  myself.  When  I  conversed  among  Ministers,  I  boasted 
of  your  acquaintance,  but  I  feel  no  vanity  from  being  known 
to  a  Secretary  of  State.  I  am  only  a  little  concerned  to  see 
you  stand  single ;  for  it  is  a  prodigious  singularity  in  any  court 
to  owe  one's  rise  entirely  to  merit.  I  will  venture  to  tell  you 
a  secret  —  that  three  or  four  more  such  choices  would  gain 
more  hearts  in  three  weeks  than  all  the  methods  hitherto 
practised  have  been  able  to  do  in  as  many  years. 

It  is  now  time  for  me  to  recollect  that  I  am  writing  to  a 
Secretary  of  State,  who  has  little  time  allowed  him  for  trifles. 
I  therefore  take  my  leave,  with  assurances  of  being  ever,  with 
the  truest  respect,  etc.,  Yours, 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


10  GRAY   TO    HIS    MOTHER 

VII 
Thomas  Gray  to  his  Mother 

Rheims,  June  21  [N.S.],  1739. 

We  have  now  been  settled  almost  three  weeks  in  this  city, 
which  is  more  considerable  upon  account  of  its  size  and  antiq- 
uity than  from  the  number  of  its  inhabitants  or  any  advan- 
tages of  commerce.  There  is  little  in  it  worth  a  stranger's 
curiosity  besides  the  cathedral  church,  which  is  a  vast  Gothic 
building  of  a  surprising  beauty  and  lightness,  all  covered  over 
with  a  profusion  of  little  statues  and  other  ornaments.  It  is 
here  the  kings  of  France  are  crowned  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Rheims,  who  is  the  first  peer,  and  the  primate  of  the  kingdom. 
The  holy  vessel  made  use  of  on  that  occasion,  which  contains 
the  oil,  is  kept  in  the  church  of  St.  Nicasius  hard  by,  and  is 
believed  to  have  been  brought  by  an  angel  from  heaven  at  the 
coronation  of  Clovis,  the  first  Christian  king.  The  streets  in  gen- 
eral have  but  a  melancholy  aspect,  the  houses  all  old  ;  the  public 
walks  run  along  the  side  of  a  great  moat  under  the  ramparts, 
where  one  hears  a  continual  croaking  of  frogs ;  the  country 
round  about  is  one  great  plain  covered  with  vines,  which  at 
this  time  of  year  afford  no  very  pleasing  prospect,  as  being  not 
above  a  foot  high. 

What  pleasures  the  place  denies  to  the  sight,  it  makes  up  to 
the  palate ;  since  you  have  nothing  to  drink  but  the  best 
champagne  in  the  world,  and  all  sorts  of  provisions  equally 
good.  As  to  other  pleasures,  there  is  not  that  freedom  of 
conversation  among  the  people  of  fashion  here  that  one 
sees  in  other  parts  of  France ;  for  though  they  are  not  very 
numerous  in  this  place,  and  consequently  must  live  a  good 
deal  together,  yet  they  never  come  to  any  great  familiarity 
with  one  another.  As  my  Lord  Conway  had  spent  a  good 
part  of  his  time  among  them,  his  brother,  and  we  with  him, 


GRAY   TO   HIS   MOTHER  II 

were  soon  introduced  into  all  their  assemblies.  As  soon  as 
you  enter,  the  lady  of  the  house  presents  each  of  you  a  card, 
and  offers  you  a  party  at  quadrille ;  you  sit  down,  and  play 
forty  deals  without  intermission,  excepting  one  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when  everybody  rises  to  eat  of  what  they  call  the  gouter, 
which  supplies  the  place  of  our  tea,  and  is  a  service  of  wine, 
fruits,  cream,  sweetmeats,  crawfish,  and  cheese.  People  take 
what  they  like,  and  sit  down  again  to  play;  after  that,  they 
make  little  parties  to  go  to  the  walks  together,  and  then  all 
the  company  retire  to  their  separate  habitations.  Very  sel- 
dom any  suppers  or  dinners  are  given ;  and  this  is  the  man- 
ner they  live  among  one  another;  not  so  much  out  of  any 
aversion  they  have  to  pleasure,  as  out  of  a  sort  of  formality 
they  have  contracted  by  not  being  much  frequented  by  people 
who  have  lived  at  Paris.  It  is  sure  they  do  not  hate  gaiety 
any  more  than  the  rest  of  their  country-people,  and  can  enter 
into  diversions  that  are  once  proposed  with  a  good  grace 
enough;  for  instance,  the  other  evening  we  happened  to  be 
got  together  in  a  company  of  eighteen  people,  men  and  women 
of  the  best  fashion  here,  at  a  garden  in  the  town  to  walk; 
when  one  of  the  ladies  bethought  herself  of  asking,  'Why 
should  not  we  sup  here  ?  '  Immediately  the  cloth  was  laid  by 
the  side  of  a  fountain  under  the  trees,  and  a  very  elegant  sup- 
per served  up  ;  after  which  another  said, '  Come,  let  us  sing ' ; 
and  directly  began  herself.  From  singing  we  insensibly  fell 
to  dancing,  and  singing  in  a  round ;  when  somebody  men- 
tioned the  violins,  and  immediately  a  company  of  them  was 
ordered.  Minuets  were  begun  in  the  open  air,  and  then  came 
country-dances,  which  held  till  four  o'clock  next  morning ;  at 
which  hour  the  gayest  lady  there  proposed  that  such  as  were 
weary  should  get  into  their  coaches,  and  the  rest  of  them 
should  dance  before  them  with  the  music  in  the  van ;  and  in 
this  manner  we  paraded  through  all  the  principal  streets  of  the 


12  GRAY   TO    HIS    MOTHER 

city,  and  waked  everybody  in  it.  Mr.  Walpole  had  a  mind  to 
make  a  custom  of  the  thing,  and  would  have  given  a  ball  in 
the  same  manner  next  week;  but  the  women  did  not  come 
into  it,  so  I  believe  it  will  drop,  and  they  will  return  to  their 
dull  cards  and  usual  formalities.  We  are  not  to  stay  above  a 
month  longer  here,  and  shall  then  go  to  Dijon,  the  chief  city 
of  Burgundy,  a  very  splendid  and  very  gay  town  ;  at  least  such 
is  the  present  design. 

VIII 
Thomas  Gray  to  his  Mother 

Turin,  November  7  [N.S.],  1739. 

I  am  this  night  arrived  here,  and  have  just  set  \_sic~\  down  to 
rest  me  after  eight  days'  tiresome  journey.  For  the  three  first 
we  had  the  same  road  we  before  passed  through  to  go  to  Geneva ; 
the  fourth  we  turned  out  of  it,  and  for  that  day  and  the  next 
traveled  rather  among  than  upon  the  Alps ;  the  way  commonly 
running  through  a  deep  valley  by  the  side  of  the  river  Arve, 
which  works  itself  a  passage,  with  great  difficulty  and  a  mighty 
noise,  among  vast  quantities  of  rocks,  that  have  rolled  down 
from  the  mountain-tops.  The  winter  was  so  far  advanced  as 
in  great  measure  to  spoil  the  beauty  of  the  prospect;  how- 
ever, there  was  still  somewhat  fine  remaining  amidst  the  sav- 
ageness  and  horror  of  the  place.  The  sixth  we  began  to  go  up 
several  of  these  mountains ;  and  as  we  were  passing  one,  met 
with  an  odd  accident  enough.  Mr.  Walpole  had  a  little  fat 
black  spaniel,  that  he  was  very  fond  of,  which  he  sometimes 
used  to  set  down,  and  let  it  run  by  the  chaise-side.  We  were 
at  that  time  in  a  very  rough  road,  not  two  yards  broad  at 
most;  on  one  side  was  a  great  wood  of  pines,  and  on  the 
other  a  vast  precipice ;  it  was  noonday,  and  the  sun  shone 
bright,  when  all  of  a  sudden  from  the  wood-side  —  which  was 


GRAY  TO    HIS   MOTHER  13 

as  steep  upwards  as  the  other  part  was  downwards  —  out  rushed 
a  great  wolf,  came  close  to  the  head  of  the  horses,  seized  the 
dog  by  the  throat,  and  rushed  up  the  hill  again  with  him  in 
his  mouth.  This  was  done  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute ; 
we  all  saw  it,  and  yet  the  servants  had  not  time  to  draw  their 
pistols,  or  do  anything  to  save  the  dog.  If  he  had  not  been 
there,  and  the  creature  had  thought  fit  to  lay  hold  of  one  of 
the  horses,  chaise  and  we  and  all  must  inevitably  have 
tumbled  above  fifty  fathoms  perpendicular  down  the  precipice. 
The  seventh  we  came  to  Lanebourg,  the  last  town  in  Savoy; 
it  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  famous  Mount  Cenis,  which  is  so  situ- 
ated as  to  allow  no  room  for  any  way  but  over  the  very  top  of 
it.  Here  the  chaise  was  forced  to  be  pulled  to  pieces,  and  the 
baggage  and  that  to  be  carried  by  mules.  We  ourselves  were 
wrapped  up  in  our  furs,  and  seated  upon  a  sort  of  matted 
chair  without  legs,  which  is  carried  upon  poles  in  the  manner 
of  a  bier,  and  so  begun  to  ascend  by  the  help  of  eight  men. 
It  was  six  miles  to  the  top,  where  a  plain  opens  itself  about  as 
many  more  in  breadth,  covered  perpetually  with  very  deep 
snow,  and  in  the  midst  of  that  a  great  lake  of  unfathomable 
depth,  from  whence  a  river  takes  its  rise,  and  tumbles  over 
monstrous  rocks  quite  down  the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 
The  descent  is  six  miles  more,  but  infinitely  more  steep  than 
the  going  up ;  and  here  the  men  perfectly  fly  down  with  you, 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone  with  incredible  swiftness  in  places 
where  none  but  they  could  go  three  paces  without  falling. 
The  immensity  of  the  precipices,  the  roaring  of  the  river  and 
torrents  that  run  into  it,  the  huge  crags  covered  with  ice  and 
snow,  and  the  clouds  below  you  and  about  you,  are  objects  it 
is  impossible  to  conceive  without  seeing  them ;  and  though 
we  had  heard  many  strange  descriptions  of  the  scene,  none  of 
them  at  all  came  up  to  it.  We  were  but  five  hours  in  per- 
forming the  whole,  from  which  you  may  judge  of  the  rapidity 


14  SHENSTONE   TO   JAGO 

of  the  men's  motion.  We  are  now  got  into  Piedmont,  and 
stopped  a  little  while  at  La  Ferriere,  a  small  village  about 
three-quarters  of  the  way  down,  but  still  among  the  clouds, 
where  we  began  to  hear  a  new  language  spoken  round  us ; 
at  last  we  got  quite  down,  went  through  the  Pas  de  Suse,  a 
narrow  road  among  the  Alps,  defended  by  two  fortresses,  and 
lay  at  Bussoleno.  Next  evening  through  a  fine  avenue  of  nine 
miles  in  length,  as  straight  as  a  line,  we  arrived  at  this  city, 
which,  as  you  know,  is  the  capital  of  the  Principality,  and  the 
residence  of  the  King  of  Sardinia.  .  .  .  We  shall  stay  here, 
I  believe,  a  fortnight,  and  proceed  for  Genoa,  which  is  three 
or  four  days*  journey  to  go  post. 

IX 

William  Shenstone  to  Mr.Jago 
DEAR  SIR  •  T^e  Leasowes>  March  23,  1747-8. 

I  have  sent  Tom  over  for  the  papers  which  I  left  under  your 
inspection  ;  having  nothing  to  add  upon  this  head  but  that  the 
more  freely  and  particularly  you  give  me  your  opinion,  the 
greater  will  be  the  obligation  which  I  shall  have  to  acknowledge. 

I  shall  be  very  glad  if  I  happen  to  receive  a  good  large  bun- 
dle of  your  own  compositions,  in  regard  to  which  I  will  observe 
any  commands  which  you  shall  please  to  lay  upon  Hie. 

I  am  favored  with  a  certain  correspondence  by  way  of  letter, 
which  I  told  you  I  should  be  glad  to  cultivate ;  and  I  find  it 
very  entertaining. 

Pray  did  you  receive  my  answer  to  your  last  letter,  sent  by 
way  of  London?  I  should  be  extremely  sorry  to  be  debarred 
the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you  by  the  post  as  often  as  I  feel  a 
violent  propensity  to  describe  the  notable  incidents  of  my 
life,  which  amount  to  about  as  much  as  the  tinsel  of  your 
little  boy's  hobby-horse. 


SHENSTONE   TO   JAGO  15 

I  am  on  the  point  of  purchasing  a  couple  of  busts  for  the 
niches  of  my  hall ;  and  believe  me,  my  good  friend,  I  never 
proceed  one  step  in  ornamenting  my  little  farm  but  I  enjoy 
the  hopes  of  rendering  it  more  agreeable  to  you  and  the 
small  circle  of  acquaintance  which  sometimes  favor  me  with 
their  company. 

I  shall  be  extremely  glad  to  see  you  and  Mr.  Fancourt  when 
the  trees  are  green  —  that  is,  in  May ;  but  I  would  not  have 
you  content  yourself  with  a  single  visit  this  summer.  If  Mr. 
Hardy  —  to  whom  you  will  make  my  compliments  —  inclines 
to  favor  me  so  far,  you  must  calculate  so  as  to  wait  on  him 
whenever  he  finds  it  convenient,  though  I  have  better  hopes 
of  making  his  reception  here  agreeable  to  him  when  my 
Lord  Dudley  comes  down.  I  wonder  how  he  would  like  the 
scheme  I  am  upon,  of  exchanging  a  large  ^tankard  for  a  silver 
standish. 

I  have  had  a  couple  of  paintings  given  me  since  you  were 
here.  One  of  them  is  a  Madonna,  valued,  as  it  is  said,  at  ten 
guineas  in  Italy,  but  which  you  would  hardly  purchase  at  the 
price  of  five  shillings.  However,  I  am  endeavoring  to  make  it 
out  to  be  one  of  Carlo  Maratt[a]'s,  who  was  a  first  hand,  and 
famous  for  Madonnas ;  even  so  as  to  be  nicknamed  '  Carluccio 
delle  Madonne '  by  Salvator  Rosa.  Two  letters  of  the  cipher 
(CM)  agree ;  what  shall  I  do  with  regard  to  the  third  ?  It  is 
a  small  piece,  and  sadly  blackened.  It  is  about  the  size  — 
though  not  quite  the  shape  —  of  the  Bacchus  over  the  parlor 
door,  and  has  much  such  a  frame. 

A  person  may  amuse  himself  almost  as  cheaply  as  he  pleases. 
I  find  no  small  delight  in  rearing  all  sorts  of  poultry  —  geese, 
turkeys,  pullets,  ducks,  etc.  I  am  also  somewhat  smitten  with 
a  blackbird  which  I  have  purchased,  a  very  fine  one,  brother 
by  father,  but  not  by  mother,  to  the  unfortunate  bird  you  so 
beautifully  describe,  a  copy  of  which  description  you  must  not 


16  WOLFE   TO    HIS    MOTHER 

fail  to  send  me ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  one  may  easily  habitu- 
ate oneself  to  cheap  amusements,  that  is,  rural  ones  —  for  all 
town  amusements  are  horridly  expensive.  I  would  have  you 
cultivate  your  garden ;  plant  flowers ;  have  a  bird  or  two  in 
the  hall  —  they  will  at  least  amuse  your  children  ;  write  now  and 
then  a  song ;  buy  now  and  then  a  book  ;  write  now  and  then  a 
letter  to  your  most  sincere  friend  and  affectionate  servant. 

P.S.  I  hope  you  have  exhausted  all  your  spirit  of  criticism 
upon  my  verses,  that  you  may  have  none  left  to  cavil  at  this 
letter ;  for  I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  you,  in  particular, 
should  receive  the  dullest  I  ever  wrote  in  my  life.  Make  my 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Jago.  She  can  go  a  little  abroad,  you 
say;  tell  her  I  should  be  proud  to  show  her  the  Leasowes. 
Adieu. 

X 

James  Wolfe  r  to  his  Mother 

DEAR  MADAM  :  Glasgow,  October  2,  1749- 

It  will  not  be  possible  in  my  circumstances  to  get  leave  of 
absence  for  four  months ;  we  can  expect  no  such  indulgence. 
A  less  time  is  not  worth  asking  for,  and  therefore  I  '11  pass  the 
winter  at  Perth.  I  must  hunt  and  shoot  for  exercise,  and  read 
for  entertainment.  After  Christmas,  when  the  company  comes 
into  Edinburgh,  and  the  place  is  in  all  its  perfection  of  dirt 
and  gaiety,  I  '11  repair  thither,  and  stay  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks.  It  will  help  to  dispel  melancholy,  and  I  have  been 
told  that  a  certain  smell  is  a  remedy  for  the  vapors ;  there  I 
can't  fail  to  meet  the  cure.  This  day  fortnight  we  leave  this 
town,  and  till  we  return  to  it  cannot  hope  to  find  so  good 
quarters.  According  to  the  rotation .  of  the  troops  in  Scot- 
land, the  sixth  year  brings  us  back  ;  but 't  is  a  dreadful  interval, 

i  The  hero  of  Quebec.  —  EDS. 


WOLFE   TO    HIS    MOTHER  17 

a  little  life  to  a  military  man;  and  for  my  particular,  so  far 
from  being  in  love  with  the  country  that  I  'd  go  to  the  Rhine 
or  Italy,  nay,  serve  in  a  campaign  against  the  Turks,  rather 
than  continue  in  it  the  time  I  have  mentioned,  and  that,  too, 
in  the  very  blossoming  season  of  our  days.  It  is  my  misfor- 
tune to  miss  the  improving  hour,  and  to  degenerate  instead  of 
brightening.  Few  of  my  companions  surpass  me  in  common 
knowledge,  but  most  of  them  in  vice.  This  is  a  truth  that  I 
should  blush  to  relate  to  one  that  had  not  all  my  confidence, 
lest  it  be  thought  to  proceed  either  from  insolence  or  vanity ; 
but  I  think  you  don't  understand  it  so.  I  dread  their  habits 
and  behavior,  and  am  forced  to  an  eternal  watch  upon  myself, 
that  I  may  avoid  the  very  manner  which  I  most  condemn  in 
them.  Young  men  should  have  some  object  constantly  in  their 
aim,  some  shining  character  to  direct  them.  'T  is  a  disadvan- 
tage to  be  first  at  an  imperfect  age ;  either  we  become  en- 
amored with  ourselves,  seeing  nothing  superior,  or  fall  into 
the  degree  of  our  associates. 

I  '11  stop  here,  that  you  may  not  think  me  very  uneasy.  As 
I  now  am,  it  is  possible  that  I  might  be  better  pleased,  but  my 
duty  and  a  natural  indolence  of  temper  make  it  less  irksome ; 
and  then  a  pretty  constant  employment  helps  to  get  me 
through,  and  secures  me  from  excess  or  debauch.  That,  too, 
is  enough  prevented  by  the  office  of  a  commander. 

My  duty  to  my  father. 

I  am,  dear  Madam, 
Your  obedient  and  affectionate  son, 

J.  WOLFE. 


18  FRANKLIN    TO   COLLINSON 

XI 
Benjamin  Franklin  to  Peter  Collinson 

[Read  at  the  Royal  Society,  December  21,  1752.] 

gJR  .  Philadelphia,  19  October,  1752. 

As  frequent  mention  is  made  in  public  papers  from  Europe 
of  the  success  of  the  Philadelphia  experiment  for  drawing  the 
electric  fire  from  clouds  by  means  of  pointed  rods  of  iron 
erected  on  high  buildings,  etc.,  it  may  be  agreeable  to  the 
curious  to  be  informed  that  the  same  experiment  has  succeeded 
in  Philadelphia,  though  made  in  a  different  and  more  easy 
manner,  which  is  as  follows.  Make  a  small  cross  of  two  light 
strips  of  cedar,  the  arms  so  long  as  to  reach  to  the  four  corners 
of  a  large  thin  silk  handkerchief  when  extended ;  tie  the  cor- 
ners of  the  handkerchief  to  the  extremities  of  the  cross,  so  you 
have  the  body  of  a  kite  ;  which,  being  properly  accommodated 
with  a  tail,  loop,  and  string,  will  rise  in  the  air  like  those  made 
of  paper ;  but  this,  being  of  silk,  is  fitter  to  bear  the  wet  and 
wind  of  a  thunder-gust  without  tearing.  To  the  top  of  the 
upright  stick  of  the  cross  is  to  be  fixed  a  very  sharp-pointed 
wire,  rising  a  foot  or  more  above  the  wood.  To  the  end  of 
the  twine,  next  the  hand,  is  to  be  tied  a  silk  ribbon,  and  where 
the  silk  and  twine  join,  a  key  may  be  fastened. 

This  kite  is  to  be  raised  when  a  thunder-gust  appears  to  be 
coming  on,  and  the  person  who  holds  the  string  must  stand 
within  a  door  or  window,  or  under  some  cover,  so  that  the 
silk  ribbon  may  not  be  wet;  and  care  must  be  taken  that 
the  twine  does  not  touch  the  frame  of  the  door  or  window. 
As  soon  as  any  of  the  thunder-clouds  come  over  the  kite,  the 
pointed  wire  will  draw  the  electric  fire  from  them,  and  the 
kite,  with  all  the  twine,  will  be  electrified,  and  the  loose  fila- 
ments of  the  twine  will  stand  out  every  way,  and  be  attracted 


JOHNSON  TO   CHESTERFIELD  19 

by  an  approaching  finger.  And  when  the  rain  has  wetted  the 
kite  and  twine,  so  that  it  can  conduct  the  electric  fire  freely, 
you  will  find  it  stream  out  plentifully  from  the  key  on  the 
approach  of  your  knuckle.  At  this  key  the  vial  may  be 
charged ;  and  from  electric  fire  thus  obtained  spirits  may  be 
kindled,  and  all  the  other  electric  experiments  be  performed 
which  are  usually  done  by  the  help  of  a  rubbed  glass  globe  or 
tube,  and  thereby  the  sameness  of  the  electric  matter  with  that 
of  lightning  completely  demonstrated. 

B.  FRANKLIN. 

XII 

Samuel  Johnson  to  Lord  Chesterfield 
To  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  THE  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD. 

MY   LORD  :  February  7,  1755. 

I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor  of  the  World 
that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to 
the  public,  were  written  by  Your  Lordship.  To  be  so  distin- 
guished is  an  honor  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to 
favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in 
what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  Your 
Lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the 
enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de  la 
terre 1;  that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the 
world  contending ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  en- 
couraged that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to 
continue  it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  Your  Lordship  in 
public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired 

1  The  conqueror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  world.  —  EDS, 


20  JOHNSON   TO   CHESTERFIELD 

and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could ; 
and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever 
so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed,  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficul- 
ties of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at 
last  to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance, 
one  word"  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treat- 
ment I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on 
a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached 
ground  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind  ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot 
enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am 
known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical 
asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been 
received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me 
as  owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled  me 
to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation 
to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though 
I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less ;  for  I  have 
been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope  in  which  I  once 
boasted  myself,  with  so  much  exultation, 

My  Lord, 
Your  Lordship's  most  humble, 

Most  obedient  servant, 

SAM.  JOHNSON. 


FRANKLIN    TO    HIS   WIFE  21 

XIII 
Benjamin  Franklin  to  Jiis  Wife 

MY   DEAR   CHILD  :  Bethlehem,  15  January,  1756. 

We  move  this  day  for  Gnadenhutten.  If  you  have  not  cash 
sufficient,  call  upon  Mr.  Moore,  the  treasurer,  with  that  order 
of  the  Assembly,  and  desire  .him  to  pay  you  one  hundred 
pounds  of  it.  If  he  has  not  cash  on  hand,  Mr.  Norris  —  to 
whom  my  respects  —  will  advance  it  for  him.  We  shall  have 
with  us  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  men,  and  shall  endeavor 
to  act  cautiously,  so  as  to  give  the  enemy  no  advantage  through 
our  negligence.  Make  yourself  therefore  easy. 

Give  my  hearty  love  to  all  friends.  I  hope  in  a  fortnight 
or  three  weeks,  God  willing,  to  see  the  intended  line  of  forts 
finished,  and  then  I  shall  make  a  trip  to  Philadelphia,  and  send 
away  the  lottery  tickets,  and  pay  off  the  prizes,  though  you 
may  pay  such  as  come  to  hand  of  those  sold  in  Philadelphia 
of  my  signing.  They  were  but  few,  the  most  being  sold  abroad  ; 
and  those  that  sold  them  and  received  the  money  will  pay  off 
the  prizes.  I  hope  you  have  paid  Mrs.  Stephens  for  the  bills. 

I  am,  my  dear  child, 

Your  loving  husband, 

B.  FRANKLIN. 

XIV 

Horace  Walpole  to  George  Montagu 

Strawberry  Hill,  Aug.  12,  1760. 

In  what  part  of  the  island  you  are  just  now  I  don't  know 

—  flying  about  somewhere  or  other,  I  suppose.     Well,  it  is 

charming  to  be  so  young  !     Here  am  I  lying  upon  a  couch, 

wrapped  up  in  flannels,  with  the  gout  in  both  feet  —  O,  yes, 

gout  in  all  the  forms  !    Six  years  ago  I  had  it,  and  nobody  would 


22  WALPOLE   TO    MONTAGU 

believe  me  ;  now  they  may  have  proof.  My  legs  are  as  big  as 
your  cousin  Guilford's,  and  they  don't  use  to  be  quite  so  large. 
I  was  seized  yesterday  sennight;  have  had  little  pain  in  the 
day,  but  most  uncomfortable  nights ;  however,  I  move  about 
again  a  little  with  a  stick.  If  either  my  father  or  mother  had 
had  it,  I  should  not  dislike  it  so  much.  I  am  herald  enough 
to  approve  it  if  descended  genealogically  ;  but  it  is  an  absolute 
upstart  in  me,  and,  what  is  more  provoking,  I  had  trusted  to 
my  great  abstinence  for  keeping  me  from  it.  But  thus  it  is : 
if  I  had  any  gentlemanlike  virtue,  as  patriotism  or  loyalty,  I 
might  have  got  something  by  them ;  I  had  nothing  but  that 
beggarly  virtue  temperance,  and  she  had  not  interest  enough 
to  keep  me  from  a  fit  of  the  gout.  Another  plague  is  that 
everybody  that  ever  knew  anybody  that  had  it  is  so  good  as  to 
come  with  advice  and  direct  me  how  to  manage  it  —  that  is, 
how  to  contrive  to  have  it  for  a  great  many  years.  I  am  very 
refractory :  I  say  to  the  gout,  as  great  personages  do  to  the 
executioners,  *  Friend,  do  your  work  as  quick  as  you  can.' 
They  tell  me  of  wine  to  keep  it  out  of  my  stomach ;  but  I  will 
starve  temperance  itself,  I  will  be  virtuous  indeed  —  that  is,  I 
will  stick  to  virtue,  though  I  find  it  is  not  its  own  reward. 

This  confinement  has  kept  me  from  Yorkshire ;  I  hope, 
however,  to  be  at  Ragley  by  the  20 th,  from  whence  I  shall 
still  go  to  Lord  Strafford's  —  and  by  this  delay  you  may  pos- 
sibly be  at  Greatworth  by  my  return,  which  will  be  about  the 
beginning  of  September.  Write  me  a  line  as  soon  as  you 
receive  this ;  direct  it  to  Arlington  Street ;  it  will  be  sent 
after  me.  Adieu. 

P.S.  My  tower  erects  its  battlements  bravely ;  my  Anec- 
dotes of  Painting  thrive  exceedingly,  thanks  to  the  gout  that 
has  pinned  me  to  my  chair.  Think  of  Ariel  the  sprite  in  a 
slit  shoe  ! 


GRAY   TO    MASON  23 

XV 
Thomas  Gray  to  William  Mason 

DEAR   MASON  :  Pembroke  Hall,  December  8,  1761. 

Of  all  loves  come  to  Cambridge  out  of  hand,  for  here  is 
Mr.  Delaval  and  a  charming  set  of  glasses 1  that  sing  like  night- 
ingales; and  we  have  concerts  every  other  night,  and  shall 
stay  here  this  month  or  two ;  and  a  vast  deal  of  good  com- 
pany, and  a  whale  in  pickle  just  come  from  Ipswich  ;  and  the 
man  will  not  die,  and  Mr.  Wood  is  gone  to  Chatsworth ;  and 
there  is  nobody  but  you  and  Tom  and  the  curled  dog;  and 
do  not  talk  of  the  charge,  for  we  will  make  a  subscription ; 
besides,  we  know  you  always  come  when  you  have  a  mind. 

T.  G. 

XVI 

Horace  Walpole  to  the  Earl  of  Straff ord 

MY   DEAR   LORD  :  Strawberry  Hill,  Aug.  10,  1763. 

I  have  waited  in  hopes  that  the  world  would  do  something 
worth  telling  you ;  it  will  not,  and  I  cannot  stay  any  longer 
without  asking  you  how  you  do,  and  hoping  you  have  not 
quite  forgot  me.  It  has  rained  such  deluges  that  I  had  some 
thoughts  of  turning  my  gallery  into  an  ark,  and  began  to  pack 
up  a  pair  of  bantams,  a  pair  of  cats  —  in  short,  a  pair  of  every 
living  creature  about  my  house ;  but  it  is  grown  fine  at  last, 
and  the  workmen  quit  my  gallery  to-day  without  hoisting  a 
sail  in  it.  I  know  nothing  upon  earth  but  what  the  ancient 
ladies  in  my  neighborhood  knew  threescore  years  ago  ;  I  write 
merely  to  pay  you  my  peppercorn  of  affection,  and  to  inquire 
after  my  lady,  who  I  hope  is  perfectly  well.  A  longer  letter 

1  All  readers  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  will  remember  the  musical  glasses.  —  EDS. 


24  WALPOLE    TO    MONTAGU 

would  not  have  half  the  merit ;  a  line  in  return  will  however 
repay  all  the  merit  I  can  possibly  have  to  one  to  whom  I  am  so 
much  obliged. 

XVII 
Horace  Walpole  to  George  Montagu 

Arlington  Street,  Dec.  16,  1764. 

As  I  have  not  read  in  the  paper  that  you  died  lately  at 
Greatworth,  in  Northamptonshire,  nor  have  met  with  any 
Montagu  or  Trevor  in  mourning,  I  conclude  you  are  living ; 
I  send  this,  however,  to  inquire,  and  if  you  should  happen  to 
be  departed,  hope  your  executor  will  be  so  kind  as  to  burn  it. 
Though  you  do  not  seem  to  have  the  same  curiosity  about  my 
existence,  you  may  gather  from  my  handwriting  that  I  am 
still  in  being ;  which  being  perhaps  full  as  much  as  you  want 
to  know  of  me,  I  will  trouble  you  with  no  farther *  particulars 
about  myself  —  nay,  nor  about  anybody  else ;  your  curiosity 
seeming  to  be  pretty  much  the  same  about  all  the  world. 
News  there  are  certainly  none ;  nobody  is  even  dead,  as  the 
Bishop  of  Carlisle  [Lyttelton]  told  me  to-day  —  which  I  repeat 
to  you  in  general ;  though  I  apprehend  in  his  own  mind  he 
meant  no  possessor  of  a  better  bishopric. 

If  you  like  to  know  the  state  of  the  town,  here  it  is.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  very  empty ;  in  the  next,  there  are  more  diver- 
sions than  the  week  will  hold.  A  charming  Italian  opera, 
with  no  dances  and  no  company,  at  least  on  Tuesdays ;  to 
supply  which  defect  the  subscribers  are  to  have  a  ball  and  a 
supper  —  a  plan  that  in  my  humble  opinion  will  fill  the  Tues- 
days and  empty  the  Saturdays.  At  both  playhouses  are  woful 
English  operas,  which,  however,  fill  better  than  the  Italian, 
patriotism  being  entirely  confined  to  our  ears ;  how  long 

1  So  in  the  original.  —  EDS. 


WALPOLE   TO   MONTAGU  25 

the  sages  of  the  law  may  leave  us  those  I  cannot  say.  Mrs. 
Cornells,  apprehending  the  future  assembly  at  Almack's,  has 
enlarged  her  vast  room  and  hung  it  with  blue  satin,  and  another 
with  yellow  satin ;  but  Almack's  room,  which  is  to  be  ninety 
feet  long,  proposes  to  swallow  up  both  hers  as  easily  as  Moses' 
rod  gobbled  down  those  of  the  magicians.  Well,  but  there 
are  more  joys  —  a  dinner  and  assembly  every  Tuesday  at  the 
Austrian  minister's ;  ditto  on  Thursdays  at  the  Spaniard's ; 
ditto  on  Wednesdays  and  Sundays  at  the  French  ambassador's ; 
besides  Madame  de  Welderen's  on  Wednesdays,  Lady  Har- 
rington's Sundays,  and  occasional  private  mobs  at  my  Lady 
Northumberland's.  Then  for  the  mornings,  there  are  levees 
and  drawing-rooms  without  end,  not  to  mention  the  Maccaroni 
Club,  which  has  quite  absorbed  Arthur's,  for  you  know  old 
fools  will  hobble  after  young  ones.  Of  all  these  pleasures,  I 
prescribe  myself  a  very  small  pittance  —  my  dark  corner  in  my 
own  box  at  the  opera,  and  now  and  then  an  ambassador  to 
keep  my  French  going  till  my  journey  to  Paris.  .  .  . 

Tell  me  whether  I  am  likely  to  see  you  before  I  go  to  Paris, 
which  will  be  early  in  February.  I  hate  you  for  being  so  indif- 
ferent about  me.  I  live  in  the  world,  and  yet  love  nothing, 
care  a  straw  for  nothing,  but  two  or  three  old  friends  that  I 
have  loved  these  thirty  years.  You  have  buried  yourself  with 
half-a-dozen  parsons  and  squires,  and  yet  never  cast  a  thought 
upon  those  you  have  always  lived  with.  You  come  to  town 
for  two  months,  grow  tired  in  six  weeks,  hurry  away,  and  then 
one  hears  no  more  of  you  till  next  winter.  I  don't  want  you 
to  like  the  world,  I  like  it  no  more  than  you ;  but  I  stay  a 
while  in  it,  because  while  one  sees  it  one  laughs  at  it,  but  when 
one  gives  it  up  one  grows  angry  with  it  —  and  I  hold  it  much 
wiser  to  laugh  than  to  be  out  of  humor.  You  cannot  imagine 
how  much  ill  blood  this  perseverance  has  cured  me  of ;  I  used 
to  say  to  myself,  *  Lord  !  this  person  is  so  bad,  that  person  is 


26  GRAY   TO   MASON 

so  bad,  I  hate  them.'  I  have  now  found  out  that  they  are  all 
pretty  much  alike,  and  I  hate  nobody.  Having  never  found 
you  out  but  for  integrity  and  sincerity,  I  am  much  disposed 
to  persist  in  a  friendship  with  you ;  but  if  I  am  to  be  at  all  the 
pains  of  keeping  it  up,  I  shall  imitate  my  neighbors  (I  don't 
mean  those  at  next  door,  but  in  the  Scripture  sense  of  neighbor 
-  anybody) ,  and  say,  <  That  is  a  very  good  man,  but  I  don't 
care  a  farthing  for  him.'  Till  I  have  taken  my  final  resolution 
on  that  head,  I  am 

Yours  most  cordially. 


XVIII 
Thomas  Gray  to  William  Mason 

March  28,  1767. 

I  break  in  upon  you  at  a  moment  when  we  least  of  all  are 
permitted  to  disturb  our  friends,  only  to  say  that  you  are  daily 
and  hourly  present  to  my  thoughts.  If  the  worst  be  not  yet 
past,  you  will  neglect  and  pardon  me ;  but  if  the  last  struggle 
be  over,  if  the  poor  object  of  your  long  anxieties  be  no  longer 
sensible  to  your  kindness  or  to  her  own  sufferings,  allow  me  — 
at  least  in  idea,  for  what  could  I  do,  were  I  present,  more  than 
this?  —  to  sit  by  you  in  silence,  and  pity  from  my  heart  not 
her  who  is  at  rest,  but  you  who  lose  her.  May  He  who  made 
us,  the  Master  of  our  pleasures  and  of  our  pains,  preserve  and 
support  you !  Adieu. 

I  have  long  understood  how  little  you  had  to  hope. 


FRANKLIN   TO    STRAHAN  27 

XIX 

Benjamin  Franklin  to  Mr.  Strahan 

MR.  STRAHAN  :  Philadelphia,  5  July,  1775. 

You  are  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  one  of  that  majority 
which  has  doomed  my  country  to  destruction.  You  have  begun 
to  burn  our  towns  and  murder  our  people.  Look  upon  your 
hands ;  they  are  stained  with  the  blood  of  your  relations  ! 

You  and  I  were  long  friends ;  you  are  now  my  enemy,  and 

I  am 

Yours, 

B.  FRANKLIN. 

XX 

Samtte  I  Johnson  to  Mrs.  Bosivell 

MADAM  :  JulY  22»  I777- 

Though  I  am  well  enough  pleased  with  the  taste  of  sweet- 
meats, very  little  of  the  pleasure  which  I  received  at  the  arrival 
of  your  jar  of  marmalade  arose  from  eating  it.  I  received  it 
as  a  token  of  friendship,  as  a  proof  of  reconciliation,  things 
much  sweeter  than  sweetmeats,  and  upon  this  consideration  I 
return  you,  dear  madam,  my  sincerest  thanks.  By  having 
your  kindness  I  think  I  have  a  double  security  for  the  continu- 
ance of  Mr.  BoswelFs,  which  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  any 
man  can  long  keep,  when  the  influence  of  a  lady  so  highly  and 
so  justly  valued  operates  against  him.  Mr.  Boswell  will  tell 
you  that  I  was  always  faithful  to  your  interest,  and  always 
endeavored  to  exalt  you  in  his  estimation.  You  must  now 
do  the  same  for  me.  We  must  all  help  one  another,  and  you 
must  now  consider  me  as,  dear  Madam, 

Your  most  obliged  and  most  humble  servant. 


28  FRANKLIN    TO   WASHINGTON 

XXI 

Benjamin  Franklin  to  George  Washington 

gIR  .  Passy,  5  March,  1780. 

I  have  received  but  lately  the  letter  Your  Excellency  did 
me  the  honor  of  writing  to  me  in  recommendation  of  the 
Marquis  de  Lafayette.  His  modesty  detained  it  long  in  his 
own  hands.  We  became  acquainted,  however,  from  the  time 
of  his  arrival  at  Paris ;  and  his  zeal  for  the  honor  of  our 
country,  his  activity  in  our  affairs  here,  and  his  firm  attach- 
ment to  our  cause  and  to  you,  impressed  me  with  the  same 
regard  and  esteem  for  him  that  Your  Excellency's  letter  would 
have  done,  had  it  been  immediately  delivered  to  me. 

Should  peace  arrive  after  another  campaign  or  two,  and 
afford  us  a  little  leisure,  I  should  be  happy  to  see  Your  Excel- 
lency in  Europe,  and  to  accompany  you,  if  my  age  and  strength 
would  permit,  in  visiting  some  of  its  ancient  and  most  famous 
kingdoms.  You  would,  on  this  side  of  the  sea,  enjoy  the  great 
reputation  you  have  acquired,  pure  and  free  from  those  little 
shades  that  the  jealousy  and  envy  of  a  man's  countrymen  and 
contemporaries  are  ever  endeavoring  to  cast  over  living  merit. 
Here  you  would  know  and  enjoy  what  posterity  will  say  of 
Washington,  for  a  thousand  leagues  have  nearly  the  same  effect 
with  a  thousand  years.  The  feeble  voice  of  those  groveling 
passions  cannot  extend  so  far  either  in  time  or  distance. 

At  present  I  enjoy  that  pleasure  for  you,  as  I  frequently 
hear  old  generals  of  this  martial  country,  who  study  the  maps 
of  America,  and  mark  upon  them  all  your  operations,  speak 
with  sincere  approbation  and  great  applause  of  your  conduct, 
and  join  in  giving  you  the  character  of  one  of  the  greatest 
captains  of  the  age.  I  must  soon  quit  this  scene,  but  you  may 
live  to  see  our  country  flourish,  as  it  will  amazingly  and  rapidly 
after  the  war  is  over ;  like  a  field  of  young  Indian  corn,  which 


COWPER   TO    MRS.  COWPER  29 

long  fair  weather  and  sunshine  had  enfeebled  and  discolored, 
and  which  in  that  weak  state,  by  a  thunder-gust  of  violent  wind, 
hail,  and  rain,  seemed  to  be  threatened  with  absolute  destruc- 
tion ;  yet  the  storm  being  past,  it  recovers  fresh  verdure,  shoots 
up  with  double  vigor,  and  delights  the  eye,  not  of  its  owner 
only,  but  of  every  observing  traveler. 

The  best  wishes  that  can  be  formed  for  your  health,  honor, 
and  happiness,  ever  attend  you  from 

Yours,  etc., 

B.  FRANKLIN. 

XXII 

William  Cowper  to  Mrs.  Cowper 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN  :  Ma?  I0>  '780- 

I  do  not  write  to  comfort  you  :  that  office  is  not  likely  to  be 
well  performed  by  one  who  has  no  comfort  for  himself ;  nor  to 
comply  with  an  impertinent  ceremony,  which  in  general  might 
well  be  spared  on  such  occasions ;  but  because  I  would  not 
seem  indifferent  to  the  concerns  of  those  I  have  so  much 
reason  to  esteem  and  love.  If  I  did  not  sorrow  for  your 
brother's  death,  I  should  expect  that  nobody  would  for  mine ; 
when  I  knew  him,  he  was  much  beloved,  and  I  doubt  not 
continued  to  be  so.  To  live  and  die  together  is  the  lot  of  a 
few  happy  families  who  hardly  know  what  a  separation  means, 
and  one  sepulchre  serves  them  all ;  but  the  ashes  of  our  kin- 
dred are  dispersed  indeed.  Whether  the  American  gulf  has 
swallowed  up  any  other  of  my  relations,  I  know  not;  it  has 
made  many  mourners. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  cousin,  though  after  a  long  silence, 
which  perhaps  nothing  less  than  the  present  concern  could 
have  prevailed  with  me  to  interrupt,  as  much  as  ever 

Your  affectionate  kinsman. 


30  COWPER   TO   UNWIN 

XXIII 

William  Cowper  to   William  Unwin 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

It  is  hard  upon  us  striplings  who  have  uncles  still  living 
(N.B.  I  myself  have  an  uncle  still  alive)  that  those  venerable 
gentlemen  should  stand  in  our  way,  even  when  the  ladies  are 
in  question ;  that  I,  for  instance,  should  find  in  one  page  of 
your  letter  a  hope  that  Miss  Shuttleworth  would  be  of  your 
party,  and  be  told  in  your  next  that  she  is  engaged  to  your 
uncle.  Well,  we  may  perhaps  never  be  uncles,  but  we  may 
reasonably  hope  that  the  time  is  coming  when  others,  as  young 
as  we  are  now,  shall  envy  us  the  privileges  of  old  age,  and  see 
us  engross  that  share  in  the  attention  of  the  ladies  to  which 
their  youth  must  aspire  in  vain.  Make  our  compliments,  if 
you  please,  to  your  sister  Eliza,  and  tell  her  that  we  are  both 
mortified  at  having  missed  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her. 

Balloons  are  so  much  the  mode  that,  even  in  this  country, 
we  have  attempted  a  balloon.  You  may  possibly  remember 
that  at  a  place  called  Weston,  a  little  more  than  a  mile  from 
Olney,  there  lives  a  family  whose  name  is  Throckmorton.  The 
present  possessor  is  a  young  man  whom  I  remember  a  boy. 
He  has  a  wife,  who  is  young,  genteel,  and  handsome.  They 
are  Papists,  but  much  more  amiable  than  many  Protestants. 
We  never  had  any  intercourse  with  the  family,  though  ever 
since  we  lived  here  we  have  enjoyed  the  range  of  their  pleasure- 
grounds,  having  been  favored  with  a  key  which  admits  us  into 
all.  When  this  man  succeeded  to  the  estate  on  the  death  of 
his  elder  brother,  and  came  to  settle  at  Weston,  I  sent  him  a 
complimentary  card,  requesting  the  continuance  of  that  privi- 
lege, having  till  then  enjoyed  it  by  favor  of  his  mother,  who 
on  that  occasion  went  to  finish  her  days  at  Bath.  You  may 
conclude  that  he  granted  it,  and  for  about  two  years  nothing 


COWPER  TO   UNWIN  31 

more  passed  between  us.  A  fortnight  ago  I  received  an  invi- 
tation in  the  civilest  terms,  in  which  he  told  me  that  the  next 
day  he  should  attempt  to  fill  a  balloon,  and  if  it  would  be  any 
pleasure  to  me  to  be  present,  should  be  happy  to  see  me. 
Your  mother  and  I  went.  The  whole  country  were  there,  but 
the  balloon  could  not  be  filled.  The  endeavor  was,  I  believe, 
very  philosophically  made,  but  such  a  process  depends  for  its 
success  upon  such  niceties  as  make  it  very  precarious.  Our 
reception  was  however  flattering  to  a  degree,  insomuch  that 
more  notice  seemed  to  be  taken  of  us  than  we  could  possibly 
have  expected,  indeed  rather  more  than  any1  of  his  other  guests. 
They  even  seemed  anxious  to  recommend  themselves  to  our 
regards.  We  drank  chocolate,  and  were  asked  to  dine,  but 
were  engaged. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  Mrs.Unwin  and  I  walked  that  way, 
and  were  overtaken  in  a  shower.  I  found  a  tree  that  I  thought 
would  shelter  us  both,  a  large  elm,  in  a  grove  that  fronts  the 
mansion.  Mrs.  T.  observed  us,  and  running  towards  us  in  the 
rain,  insisted  on  our  walking  in.  He  was  gone  out.  We  sat 
chatting  with  her  till  the  weather  cleared  up,  and  then  at  her 
instance  took  a  walk  with  her  in  the  garden.  The  garden  is 
almost  their  only  walk,  and  is  certainly  the  only  retreat  in  which 
they  are  not  liable  to  interruption.  She  offered  us  a  key  of  it 
in  a  manner  that  made  it  impossible  not  to  accept  it,  and  said 
she  would  send  us  one. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  we  walked 
that  way  again.  We  saw  them  going  toward  the  house,  and 
exchanged  bows  and  curtsies  at  a  distance,  but  did  not  join 
them.  In  a  few  minutes,  when  we  had  passed  the  house,  and 
had  almost  reached  the  gate  that  opens  out  of  the  park  into 
the  adjoining  field,  I  heard  the  iron  gate  belonging  to  the  court- 
yard ring,  and  saw  Mr.  T.  advancing  hastily  toward  us ;  we 

1  So  in  the  original.  —  EDS. 


32  COWPER   TO   HILL 

made  equal  haste  to  meet  him ;  he  presented  to  us  the  key, 
which  I  told  him  I  esteemed  a  singular  favor,  and,  after  a  few 
such  speeches  as  are  made  on  such  occasions,  we  parted.  This 
happened  about  a  week  ago.  I  concluded  nothing  less  than 
that  all  this  civility  and  attention  was  designed  on  their  part 
as  a  prelude  to  a  nearer  acquaintance ;  but  here  at  present  the 
matter  rests.  I  should  like  exceedingly  to  be  on  an  easy  foot- 
ing there,  to  give  a  morning  call  now  and  then,  and  to  receive 
one,  but  nothing  more.  For  though  he  is  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  men  I  ever  saw,  I  could  not  wish  to  visit  him  in  any 
other  way;  neither  our  house,  furniture,  servants,  or  income 
being  such  as  qualify  us  to  make  entertainments  ;  neither  would 
I  on  any  account  be  introduced  to  the  neighboring  gentry. 
Mr.  T.  is  altogether  a  man  of  fashion,  and  respectable  on  every 
account. 

I  have  told  you  a  long  story.  Farewell.  We  number  the 
days  as  they  pass,  and  are  glad  that  we  shall  see  you  and  your 
sister  soon.  N 

XXIV 

William  Cowper  to  Joseph  Hill 

Oct.  20,  1783. 

I  should  not  have  been  thus  long  silent  had  I  known  with 
certainty  where  a  letter  of  mine  might  find  you.  Your  sum- 
mer excursions,  however,  are  now  at  an  end,  and  addressing  a 
line  to  you  in  the  centre  of  the  busy  scene  in  which  you  spend 
your  winter,  I  am  pretty  sure  of  my  mark. 

I  see  the  winter  approaching  without  much  concern,  though 
a  passionate  lover  of  fine  weather  and  the  pleasant  scenes  of 
summer ;  but  the  long  evenings  have  their  comforts  too,  and 
there  is  hardly  to  be  found  upon  earth,  I  suppose,  so  snug  a 
creature  as  an  Englishman  by  his  fireside  in  the  winter  —  I 


COWPER   TO   NEWTON  33 

mean,  however,  an  Englishman  that  lives  in  the  country,  for  in 
London  it  is  not  very  easy  to  avoid  intrusion.  I  have  two 
ladies  to  read  to,  sometimes  more,  but  never  less ;  at  present 
we  are  circumnavigating  the  globe,  and  I  find  the  old  story 
with  which  I  amused  myself  some  years  since,  through  the 
great  felicity  of  a  memory  not  very  retentive,  almost  new.  I 
am  however  sadly  at  a  loss  for  Cook's  voyage ;  can  you  send 
it  ?  I  shall  be  glad  of  Foster's  too.  These  together  will  make 
the  winter  pass  merrily,  and  you  will  much  oblige  me. 


XXV 

William  Cowper  to  John  Newton 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  AuS-  l6>  X784- 

Had  you  not  expressed  a  desire  to  hear  from  me  before 
you  take  leave  of  Lymington,  I  certainly  should  not  have 
answered  you  so  soon.  Knowing  the  place,  and  the  amuse- 
ments it  affords,  I  should  have  had  more  modesty  than  to 
suppose  myself  capable  of  adding  anything  to  your  present 
entertainments  worthy  to  rank  with  them.  I  am  not,  how- 
ever, totally  destitute  of  such  pleasures  as  an  inland  country 
may  pretend  to.  If  my  windows  do  not  command  a  view  of 
the  ocean,  at  least  they  look  out  upon  a  profusion  of  mignon- 
ette, which,  if  it  be  not  so  grand  an  object,  is,  however,  quite 
as  fragrant ;  and  if  I  have  not  a  hermit  in  a  grotto,  I  have 
nevertheless  myself  in  a  greenhouse,  a  less  venerable  figure 
perhaps,  but  not  at  all  less  animated  than  he.  Nor  are  we  in 
this  nook  altogether  unfurnished  with  such  means  of  philo- 
sophical experiment  and  speculation  as  at  present  the  world 
rings  with ;  on  Thursday  morning  last  we  sent  up  a  balloon 
from  Emberton  meadow.  Thrice  it  rose,  and  as  oft  descended, 
and  in  the  evening  it  performed  another  flight  at  Newport, 


34  COWPER   TO    NEWTON 

where  it  went  up,  and  came  down  no  more.  Like  the  arrow 
discharged  at  the  pigeon  in  the  Trojan  games,  it  kindled  in 
the  air,  and  was  consumed  in  a  moment.  I  have  not  heard 
what  interpretation  the  soothsayers  have  given  to  the  omen, 
but  shall  wonder  a  little  if  the  Newton  shepherd  prognosticate 
anything  less  from  it  than  the  most  bloody  war  that  was  ever 
waged  in  Europe. 

I  am  reading  Cook's  last  voyage,  and  am  much  pleased  and 
amused  with  it.  It  seems  that  in  some  of  the  Friendly  Isles 
they  excel  so  much  in  dancing,  and  perform  that  operation 
with  such  exquisite  delicacy  and  grace,  that  they  are  not  sur- 
passed even  upon  our  European  stages.  O  that  Vestris  had 
been  in  the  ship,  that  he  might  have  seen  himself  outdone  by 
a  savage  !  The  paper  indeed  tells  us  that  the  queen  of  France 
has  clapped  this  king  of  capers  up  in  prison  for  declining  to 
dance  before  her,  on  a  pretense  of  sickness,  when  in  fact  he 
was  in  perfect  health.  If  this  be  true,  perhaps  he  may  by  this 
time  be  prepared  to  second  such  a  wish  as  mine,  and  to  think 
that  the  durance  he  suffers  would  be  well  exchanged  for  a 
dance  at  Annamooka.  I  should,  however,  as  little  have 
expected  to  hear  that  these  islanders  had  such  consummate 
skill  in  an  art  that  requires  so  much  taste  in  the  conduct 
of  the  person  as  that  they  were  good  mathematicians  and 
astronomers.  Defective  as  they  are  in  every  branch  of  knowl- 
edge and  in  every  other  species  of  refinement,  it  seems 
wonderful  that  they  should  arrive  at  such  perfection  in  the 
dance,  which  some  of  our  English  gentlemen,  with  all  the 
assistance  of  French  instruction,  find  it  impossible  to  learn. 
We  must  conclude,  therefore,  that  particular  nations  have  a 
genius  for  particular  feats,  and  that  our  neighbors  in  France, 
and  our  friends  in  the  South  Sea,  have  minds  very  nearly 
akin,  though  they  inhabit  countries  so  very  remote  from 
each  other. 


WALPOLE    TO    MANN  35 

Mrs.  Unwin  remembers  to  have  been  in  company  with  Mr. 
Gilpin  at  her  brother's.  She  thought  him  very  sensible  and 
polite,  and  consequently  very  agreeable. 

We  are  truly  glad  that  Mrs.  Newton  and  yourself  are  so  well, 
and  that  there  is  reason  to  hope  that  Eliza  is  better.  You 
will  learn  from  this  letter  that  we  are  so,  and  that,  for  my  own 
part,  I  am  not  quite  so  low  in  spirits  as  at  some  times.  Learn 
too,  what  you  knew  before,  that  we  love  you  all,  and  that  I  am 
your  affectionate  friend. 

XXVI 
Horace  Walpole  to  Sir  Horace  Mann 

Strawberry  Hill,  Sept.  30,  1784. 

...  I  shall  now  be  expecting  your  nephew  soon,  and  I 
trust  with  a  perfectly  good  account  of  you.  The  next  time 
he  visits  you  I  may  be  able  to  send  you  a  description  of  my 
Galleria  —  I  have  long  been  preparing  it,  and  it  is  almost 
finished  —  with  some  prints,  which,  however,  I  doubt,  will 
convey  no  very  adequate  idea  of  it.  In  the  first  place,  they 
are  but  moderately  executed  ;  I  could  not  afford  to  pay  our 
principal  engravers,  whose  prices  are  equal  to,  nay,  far  above, 
those  of  former  capital  painters.  In  the  next,  as  there  is  a 
solemnity  in  the  house  of  which  the  cuts  will  give  you  an  idea, 
they  cannot  add  the  gay  variety  of  the  scene  without,  which  is 
very  different  from  every  side,  and  almost  from  every  chamber, 
and  makes  a  most  agreeable  contrast ;  the  house  being  placed 
almost  in  an  elbow  of  the  Thames,  which  surrounds  half,  and 
consequently  beautifies  three  of  the  aspects.  Then  my  little 
hill  —  and  diminutive  enough  it  is  —  gazes  up  to  royal  Rich- 
mond ;  and  Twickenham  on  the  left,  and  Kingston  Wick  on 
the  right,  are  seen  across  bends  of  the  river,  which  on  each 
hand  appears  like  a  Lilliputian  seaport.  Swans,  cows,  sheep, 


36  COWPER   TO   LADY    HESKETH 

coaches,  post-chaises,  carts,  horsemen,  and  foot-passengers  are 
continually  in  view.  The  fourth  scene  is  a  large  common-field, 
a  constant  prospect  of  harvest  and  its  stages,  traversed  under 
my  windows  by  the  great  road  to  Hampton  Court  —  in  short, 
an  animated  view  of  the  country.  These  moving  pictures  com- 
pensate the  conventual  gloom  of  the  inside,  which,  however, 
when  the  sun  shines,  is  gorgeous,  as  he  appears  all  crimson  and 
gold  and  azure  through  the  painted  glass.  Now,  to  be  quite 
fair,  you  must  turn  the  perspective,  and  look  at  this  vision 
through  the  diminishing  end  of  the  telescope ;  for  nothing  is 
so  small  as  the  whole,  and  even  Mount  Richmond  would  not 
reach  up  to  Fiesole's  shoe-buckle.  If  your  nephew  is  still 
with  you,  he  will  confirm  the  truth  of  all  the  pomp  and  all  the 
humility  of  my  description.  I  grieve  that  you  would  never 
come  and  cast  an  eye  on  it !  But  are  even  our  visions  pure 
from  alloy  ?  Does  not  some  drawback  always  hang  over  them  ? 
and,  being  visions,  how  rapidly  must  not  they  fleet  away  ! 
Yes,  yes ;  our  smiles  and  our  tears  are  almost  as  transient  as 
the  lustre  of  the  morning  and  the  shadows  of  the  evening,  and 
almost  as  frequently  interchanged.  Our  passions  form  airy 
balloons ;  we  know  not  how  to  direct  them ;  and  the  very 
inflammable  matter  that  transports  them  often  makes  the 
bubble  burst.  Adieu  ! 

XXVII 
William  Cowper  to  Lady  Hesketh 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN  :  olney»  Feb-  9'  '786- 

I  have  been  impatient  to  tell  you  that  I  am  impatient  to  see 
you  again.  Mrs.  Un win  partakes  with  me  in  all  my  feelings 
upon  this  subject,  and  longs  also  to  see  you.  I  should  have 
told  you  so  by  the  last  post,  but  have  been  so  completely 
occupied  by  this  tormenting  specimen  that  it  was  impossible 


COWPER   TO    LADY   HESKETH  37 

to  do  it.  I  sent  the  General  a  letter  on  Monday  that  would 
distress  and  alarm  him ;  I  sent  him  another  yesterday  that 
will,  I  hope,  quiet  him  again.  Johnson  has  apologized  very, 
civilly  for  the  multitude  of  his  friend's  strictures;  and  his 
friend  has  promised  to  confine  himself  in  future  to  a  compari- 
son of  me  with  the  original,  so  that  I  doubt  not  we  shall 
jog  on  merrily  together.  And  now,  my  dear,  let  me  tell  you 
once  more  that  your  kindness  in  promising  us  a  visit  has 
charmed  us  both.  I  shall  see  you  again.  I  shall  hear  your 
voice.  We  shall  take  walks  together.  I  will  show  you  my 
prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ouse  and  its  banks, 
everything  that  I  have  described.  I  anticipate  the  pleasure 
of  those  days  not  very  far  distant,  and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  this 
moment.  Talk  not  of  an  inn  !  Mention  it  not  for  your  life  ! 
We  have  never  had  so  many  visitors  but  we  could  easily 
accommodate  them  all,  though  we  have  received  Unwin,  and 
his  wife,  and  his  sister,  and  his  son,  all  at  once.  My  dear,  I 
will  not  let  you  come  till  the  end  of  May  or  beginning  of 
June,  because  before  that  time  my  greenhouse  will  not  be 
ready  to  receive  us,  and  it  is  the  only  pleasant  room  belonging 
to  us.  When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in.  I  line  it  with  mats, 
and  spread  the  floor  with  mats ;  and  there  you  shall  sit  with  a 
bed  of  mignonette  at  your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  honeysuckles, 
roses,  and  jasmine ;  and  I  will  make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle 
every  day.  Sooner  than  the  time  I  mention,  the  country  will 
not  be  in  complete  beauty.  And  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
shall  find  at  your  first  entrance.  Imprimis,  as  soon  as  you 
have  entered  the  vestibule,  if  you  cast  a  look  on  either  side  of 
you,  you  shall  see  on  the  right  hand  a  box  of  my  making.  It 
is  the  box  in  which  have  been  lodged  all  my  hares,  and  in 
which  lodges  Puss  at  present.  But  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn 
out  with  age,  and  promises  to  die  before  you  can  see  him.  On 
the  right  hand  stands  a  cupboard,  the  work  of  the  same  author ; 


38  COWPER   TO   LADY   HESKETH 

it  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I  transformed  it.  Opposite  to 
you  stands  a  table  which  I  also  made;  but  a  merciless  serv- 
ant having  scrubbed  it  until  it  became  paralytic,  it  serves  no 
purpose  now  but  of  ornament,  and  all  my  clean  shoes  stand 
under  it.  On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther  end  of  this  superb 
vestibule,  you  will  find  the  door  of  the  parlor,  into  which  I 
will  conduct  you,  and  where  I  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs. 
Unwin,  unless  we  should  meet  her  before,  and  where  we  will 
be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Order  yourself,  my  cousin, 
to  the  Swan  at  Newport,  and  there  you  shall  find  me  ready  to 
conduct  you  to  Olney. 

My  dear,  I  have  told  Homer  what  you  say  about  casks  and 
urns,  and  have  asked  him  whether  he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  cask 
in  which  Jupiter  keeps  his  wine.  He  swears  that  it  is  a  cask, 
and  that  it  will  never  be  anything  better  than  a  cask  to  eternity. 
So  if  the  god  is  content  with  it,  we  must  even  wonder  at  his 
taste,  and  be  so  too. 

Adieu,  my  dearest,  dearest  cousin  ! 


XXVIII 
William  Cowper  to  Lady  Hesketh 

Weston  Lodge,  Nov.  26,  1786. 

It  is  my  birthday,  my  beloved  cousin,  and  I  determine  to 
employ  a  part  of  it,  that  it  may  not  be  destitute  of  festivity,  in 
writing  to  you.  The  dark,  thick  fog  that  has  obscured  it  would 
have  been  a  burden  to  me  at  Olney,  but  here  I  have  hardly 
attended  to  it.  The  neatness  and  snugness  of  our  abode  com- 
pensates all  the  dreariness  of  the  season  ;  and  whether  the  ways 
are  wet  or  dry,  our  house  at  least  is  always  warm  and  com- 
modious. O  for  you,  my  cousin,  to  partake  these  comforts 
with  us  !  I  will  not  begin  already  to  tease  you  upon  that 


COWPER   TO   LADY    HESKETH  39 

subject,  but  Mrs.  Unwin  remembers  to  have  heard  from  your  own 
lips  that  you  hate  London  in  the  spring.  Perhaps,  therefore, 
by  that  time  you  may  be  glad  to  escape  from  a  scene  which 
will  be  every  day  growing  more  disagreeable,  that  you  may 
enjoy  the  comforts  of  the  lodge.  You  well  know  that  the  best 
house  has  a  desolate  appearance  unfurnished.  This  house, 
accordingly,  since  it  has  been  occupied  by  us  and  our  meitbles, 
is  as  much  superior  to  what  it  was  when  you  saw  it  as  you  can 
imagine.  The  parlor  is  even  elegant.  When  I  say  that  the 
parlor  is  elegant,  I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  the  study  is 
not  so.  It  is  neat,  warm,  and  silent,  and  a  much  better  study 
than  I  deserve  if  I  do  not  produce  in  it  an  incomparable 
translation  of  Homer.  I  think  every  day  of  those  lines  of 
Milton,  and  congratulate  myself  on  having  obtained,  before  I 
am  quite  superannuated,  what  he  seems  not  to  have  hoped  for 

sooner : 

And  may  at  length  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage  ! 

For  if  it  is  not  a  hermitage,  at  least  it  is  a  much  better  thing ; 
and  you  must  always  understand,  my  dear,  that  when  poets 
talk  of  cottages,  hermitages,  and  such  like  things,  they  mean  a 
house  with  six  sashes  in  front,  two  comfortable  parlors,  a  smart 
staircase,  and  three  bedchambers  of  convenient  dimensions 
—  in  short,  exactly  such  a  house  as  this. 

The  Throckmortons  continue  the  most  obliging  neighbors 
in  the  world.  One  morning  last  week  they  both  went  with 
me  to  the  cliffs  —  a  scene,  my  dear,  in  which  you  would  delight 
beyond  measure,  but  which  you  cannot  visit  except  in  the 
spring  or  autumn.  The  heat  of  summer,  and  clinging  dirt  of 
winter,  would  destroy  you.  What  is  called  the  cliff  is  no  cliff, 
nor  at  all  like  one,  but  a  beautiful  terrace,  sloping  gently  down 
to  the  Ouse,  and  from  the  brow  of  which,  though  not  lofty, 
you  have  a  view  of  such  a  valley  as  makes  that  which  you  see 


40  WASHINGTON    TO    COCHRAN 

from  the  hills  near  Olney,  and  which  I  have  had  the  honor  to 
celebrate,  an  affair  of  no  consideration. 

Wintry  as  the  weather  is,  do  not  suspect  that  it  confines  me. 
I  ramble  daily,  and  every  day  change  my  ramble.  Wherever 
I  go  I  find  short  grass  under  my  feet,  and  when  I  have  traveled 
perhaps  five  miles,  come  home  with  shoes  not  at  all  too  dirty 
for  a  drawing-room.  I  was  pacing  yesterday  under  the  elms 
that  surround  the  field  in  which  stands  the  great  alcove,  when, 
lifting  my  eyes,  I  saw  two  black  genteel  figures  bolt  through  a 
hedge  into  the  path  where  I  was  walking.  You  guess  already 
who  they  were,  and  that  they  could  be  nobody  but  our  neigh- 
bors. They  had  seen  me  from  a  hill  at  a  distance,  and  had 
traversed  a  great  turnip-field  to  get  at  me.  You  see,  there- 
fore, my  dear,  that  I  am  in  some  request  - —  alas  !  in  too  much 
request  with  some  people.  The  verses  of  Cadwallader  have 
found  me  at  last. 

I  am  charmed  with  your  account  of  our  little  cousin  at 
Kensington.  If  the  world  does  not  spoil  him  hereafter,  he 
will  be  a  valuable  man.  Good  night,  and  may  God  bless 
thee! 

XXIX 

George  Washington  to  Dr.  Jo  Jin  Cochran 

DEAR  DOCTOR  : 

I  have  asked  Mrs.  Cochran  and  Mrs.  Livingston  to  dine 
with  me  to-morrow;  but  am  I  not  in  honor  bound  to  apprise 
them  of  their  fare?  As  I  hate  deception,  even  where  the 
imagination  only  is  concerned,  I  will.  It  is  needless  to  pre- 
mise that  my  table  is  large  enough  to  hold  the  ladies ;  of  this 
they  had  ocular  proof  yesterday.  To  say  how  it  is  usually  cov- 
ered is  more  essential,  and  this  shall  be  the  purport  of  my 
letter.  Since  our  arrival  at  this  happy  spot  we  have  had  a 


NELSON    TO    MRS.  NELSON  41 

ham,  sometimes  a  shoulder  of  bacon,  to  grace  the  head  of  the 
table ;  a  piece  of  roast  beef  adorns  the  foot,  and  a  dish  of 
beans  or  greens,  almost  imperceptible,  the  centre.  When  the 
cook  has  a  mind  to  cut  a  figure,  which  I  presume  will  be  the 
case  to-morrow,  we  have  two  beefsteak  pies  or  dishes  of  crabs 
in  addition,  one  on  each  side  of  the  centre  dish,  dividing  the 
space,  and  reducing  the  distance  between  dish  and  dish  to 
about  six  feet,  which,  without  them,  would  be  about  twelve 
feet  apart.  Of  late  he  has  had  the  surprising  sagacity  to  dis- 
cover that  apples  will  make  pies  ;  and  it  is  a  question  if,  in  the 
violence  of  his  efforts,  we  do  not  get  one  of  apples  instead  of 
having  both  of  beefsteaks.  If  the  ladies  can  put  up  with  such 
entertainment,  and  will  submit  to  partake  of  it  on  plates,  once 
tin,  but  now  iron  —  not  become  so  by  the  labor  of  scouring  — 
I  shall  be  happy  to  see  them.1 


XXX 

Horatio  Nelson  to  Mrs.  Nelson 

Off  Leghorn,  August  18,  1794. 

I  left  Calvi  on  the  iSth,  and  hope  never  to  be  in  it  again. 
I  was  yesterday  in  St.Fiorenzo,  and  to-day  shall  be  safe  moored, 
I  expect,  in  Leghorn ;  since  the  ship  has  been  commissioned 
this  will  be  the  first  resting-time  we  have  had.  As  it  is  all 
past,  I  may  now  tell  you  that  on  the  roth  of  July,  a  shot  hav- 
ing hit  our  battery,  the  splinters  and  stones  from  it  struck  me 
with  great  violence  in  the  face  and  breast.  Although  the  blow 
was  so  severe  as  to  occasion  a  great  flow  of  blood  from  my 
head,  yet  I  most  fortunately  escaped,  having  only  my  right  eye 
nearly  deprived  of  its  sight ;  it  was  cut  down,  but  is  so  far 

1  Irving  states  that  this  is  almost  the  only  instance  of  sportive  writing  in 
Washington's  correspondence.  —  EDS. 


42  SOUTHEY    TO   WYNN 

recovered  as  for  me  to  be  able  to  distinguish  light  from  dark- 
ness. As  to  all  the  purposes  of  use,  it  is  gone;  however,  the 
blemish  is  nothing,  not  to  be  perceived  unless  told.  The 
pupil  is  nearly  the  size  of  the  blue  part,  I  don't  know  the  name. 
At  Bastia  I  got  a  sharp  cut  in  the  back.  You  must  not  think 
that  my  hurts  confined  me  ;  no,  nothing  but  the  loss  of  a  limb 
would  have  kept  me  from  my  duty,  and  I  believe  my  exertions 
conduced  to  preserve  me  in  this  general  mortality.  I  am 
fearful  that  Mrs.  Moutray's  son,  who  was  on  shore  with  us,  will 
fall  a  sacrifice  to  the  climate  ;  he  is  a  lieutenant  of  the  Victory, 
a  very  fine  young  man,  for  whom  I  have  a  great  regard  \  Lord 
Hood  is  quite  distressed  about  him.  Poor  little  Hoste  is  also 
extremely  ill,  and  I  have  great  fears  about  him.  One  hundred 
and  fifty  of  my  people  are  in  their  beds ;  of  two  thousand  men 
I  am  the  most  healthy.  Josiah  is  very  well,  and  a  clever  smart 
young  man,  for  so  I  must  call  him ;  his  sense  demands  \\.~ 

Yours,  etc., 

HORATIO  NELSON. 

XXXI 
Robert  Southey  to  C.  W.  W.  Wynn 

MY  DEAR  WYNN  :  Bristol,  May  5,  1798. 

.  .  .  You  have  seen  my  brother  in  the  Gazette,  I  suppose  — 
mentioned  honorably,  and  in  the  wounded  list.  His  wounds 
are  slight,  but  his  escape  has  been  wonderful.  The  boatswain 
came  to  know  if  they  should  board  the  enemy  forward,  and  was 
told  '  By  all  means.'  Tom  took  a  pike  and  ran  forward.  He 
found  them  in  great  confusion,  and,  as  he  thought,  only  want- 
ing a  leader;  he  asked  if  they  would  follow  him,  and  one 
poor  fellow  answered  '  Ay.'  On  this  Tom  got  into  the  French 
ship,  followed,  as  he  thought,  by  the  rest,  but,  in  fact,  only  by 
this  man.  Just  as  he  had  made  good  his  footing,  he  received 


LAMB   TO    SOUTHEY  43 

two  thrusts  with  a  pike  in  his  right  thigh,  and  fell.  They  made 
a  third  thrust  as  he  fell,  which  glanced  from  his  shoulder-blade, 
and  took  a  small  piece  of  flesh  out  of  his  back.  He  fell  between 
the  two  ships,  and  this  saved  his  life,  for  he  caught  a  rope  and 
regained  the  deck  of  the  Mars.  ...  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  would  be  prudent  in  Tom  to  accompany  Lord  Proby  to  Lis- 
bon, as  Lord  Bridport  has  sent  him  word  that  he  would  not 
forget  him  when  he  has  served  his  time,  and  offered  him  a 
berth  on  board  his  own  ship.  He  will  use  his  own  judgment, 
and  probably,  I  think,  follow  the  fortunes  of  Butterfield,  the 
first  lieutenant.  When  I  saw  him  so  noticed  by  Butterfield,  I 
felt,  as  he  says  of  himself  during  the  engagement,  *  something 
that  I  never  felt  before.'  I  felt  more  proud  of  my  brother 
when  he  received  ten  pounds  prize-money,  and  sent  his  mother 
half;  and  yet  it  gave  me  something  like  exultation  that  he 
would  now  be  respected  by  his  acquaintance,  though  not  for  his 
best  virtues.  He  is  an  excellent  young  man,  and,  moreover, 
a  good  seaman.  God  bless  him,  and  you  also. 

Yours  affectionately, 

R.  SOUTHEY. 

XXXII 
Charles  Lamb  to  Robert  Southey 

November  28,  1798. 

.  .  .  My  tailor  has  brought  me  home  a  new  coat,  lapelled, 
with  a  velvet  collar.  He  assures  me  everybody  wears  velvet 
collars  now.  Some  are  born  fashionable,  some  achieve  fashion, 
and  others,  like  your  humble  servant,  have  fashion  thrust  upon 
them.  The  rogue  has  been  making  inroads  hitherto  by  modest 
degrees,  foisting  upon  me  an  additional  button,  recommend- 
ing gaiters,  but  to  come  upon  me  thus  in  a  full  tide  of  luxury 
neither  becomes  him  as  a  tailor  nor  the  ninth  of  a  man.  My 


44  LAMB   TO   WORDSWORTH 

meek  gentleman  was  robbed  the  other  day,  coming  with  his 
wife  and  family  in  a  one-horse  shay  from  Hampstead ;  the  vil- 
lains rifled  him  of  four  guineas,  some  shillings  and  halfpence, 
and  a  bundle  of  customers'  measures,  which  they  swore  were 
bank  notes.  They  did  not  shoot  him,  and  when  they  rode  off, 
he  addressed  them  with  profound  gratitude,  making  a  conge1 : 
1  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you  good  night,  and  we  are  very  much 
obliged  to  you  that  you  have  not  used  us  ill ! '  And  this  is  the 
cuckoo  that  has  had  the  audacity  to  foist  upon  me  ten  buttons 
on  a  side,  and  a  black  velvet  collar  —  a  cursed  ninth  of  a 
scoundrel  ! 

When  you  write  to  Lloyd,  he  wishes  his  Jacobin  corre- 
spondents to  address  him  as  Mr.  C.  L.  Love  and  respects  to 
Edith.  I  hope  she  is  well. 

Yours  sincerely, 

C.  LAMB. 

XXXIII 

Charles  Lamb  to  William  Wordsworth 

January  30,  1801. 

I  ought  before  this  to  have  replied  to  your  very  kind  invi- 
tation into  Cumberland.  With  you  and  your  sister  I  could 
gang  anywhere ;  but  I  am  afraid  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  afford  so  desperate  a  journey.  Separate  from  the  pleasure 
of  your  company,  I  don't  now  care  if  I  never  see  a  mountain 
in  my  life.  I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have 
formed  as  many  and  intense  local  attachments  as  any  of  you 
mountaineers  can  have  done  with  dead  nature.  The  lighted 
shops  of  the  Strand  and  Fleet  Street,  the  innumerable  trades, 
tradesmen,  and  customers,  coaches,  wagons,  playhouses;  all 

i  Bow.  —  EDS. 


LAMB   TO  WORDSWORTH  45 

the  bustle  and  wickedness  round  Covent  Garden;  the  watch- 
men, -drunken  scenes,  rattles ;  life  awake,  if  you  are  awake, 
at  all  hours  of  the  night;  the  impossibility  of  being  dull  in 
Fleet  Street;  the  crowds,  the  very  dirt  and  mud,  the  sun 
shining  upon  houses  and  pavements,  the  print-shops,  the  old 
book-stalls,  parsons  cheapening  books,  coffee-houses,  steams 
of  soups  from  kitchens,  the  pantomimes  —  London  itself  a 
pantomime  and  a  masquerade  —  all  these  things  work  them- 
selves into  my  mind,  and  feed  me  without  a  power  of  satiating 
me.  The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me  into  night-walks 
about  her  crowded  streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the  mot- 
ley Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life.  All  these 
emotions  must  be  strange  to  you ;  so  are  your  rural  emotions 
to  me.  But  consider,  what  must  I  have  been  doing  all  my  life 
not  to  have  lent  great  portions  of  my  heart  with  usury  to  such 
scenes? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local ;  I  have  no  pas- 
sion —  or  have  had  none  since  I  was  in  love,  and  then  it  was 
the  spurious  engendering  of  poetry  and  books  —  to  groves  and 
valleys.  The  rooms  where  I  was  born ;  the  furniture  which  has 
been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life  ;  a  bookcase  which  has  followed 
me  about  like  a  faithful  dog  —  only  exceeding  him  in  knowl- 
edge— wherever  I  have  moved  ;  old  chairs  ;  old  tables  ;  streets, 
squares,  where  I  have  sunned  myself ;  my  old  school  —  these  are 
my  mistresses ;  have  I  not  enough  without  your  mountains  ?  I 
do  not  envy  you.  I  should  pity  you,  did  I  not  know  that  the 
mind  will  make  friends  of  anything.  Your  sun,  and  moon, 
and  skies,  and  hills,  and  lakes  affect  me  no  more,  or  scarcely 
come  to  me  in  more  venerable  characters,  than  as  a  gilded 
room  with  tapestry  and  tapers,  where  I  might  live  with  hand- 
some visible  objects.  I  consider  the  clouds  above  me  but  as 
a  roof  beautifully  painted,  but  unable  to  satisfy  the  mind  ;  and, 
at  last,  like  the  pictures  of  the  apartment  of  the  connoisseur, 


46  HEBER   TO   HIS    MOTHER 

unable  to  afford  him  any  longer  a  pleasure.  So  fading  upon 
me,  from  disuse,  have  been  the  beauties  of  Nature,  as  they 
have  been  confmedly  called ;  so  ever  fresh,  and  green,  and 
warm  are  all  the  inventions  of  men  and  assemblies  of  men 
in  this  great  city.  I  should  certainly  have  laughed  with  dear 
Joanna. 

Give  my  kindest  love,  and  my  sister's,  to  D.  and  yourself, 
and  a  kiss  from  me  to  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite.  Thank  you 

for  liking  my  play. 

C.  L. 

XXXIV 

Reginald  Heber  to  his  Mother 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  Moscow,  Jan.  4,  1806. 

Our  journey  has  been  prosperous,  and,  after  about  ninety 
hours'  continued  jolting,  we  arrived  safely  at  Moscow  about 
eight  o'clock  last  night.  Mr.  Bayley  came  with  us,  and  we 
have  found  his  knowledge  of  the  Russian  language  and  man- 
ners of  great  service  to  us  on  the  road.  Our  method  of  travel- 
ing deserves  describing,  both  as  being  comfortable  in  itself  and 
as  being  entirely  different,  too,  from  anything  in  England. 
We  performed  the  journey  in  kibitkas,  the  carriages  usually 
employed  by  the  Russians  in  their  winter  journeys :  they  are 
nothing  more  than  a  very  large  cradle,  well  covered  with 
leather  and  placed  on  a  sledge,  with  a  leathern  curtain  in 
front ;  the  luggage  is  packed  at  the  bottom,  the  portmanteaus 
serving  for  an  occasional  seat,  and  the  whole  covered  with  a 
mattress  on  which  one  or  more  persons  can  lie  at  full  length, 
or  sit  supported  by  pillows.  In  this  attitude,  and  well  wrapped 
up  in  furs,  one  can  scarcely  conceive  a  more  luxurious  mode 
of  getting  over  a  country  when  the  roads  are  good  and  the 
weather  not  intense ;  but  in  twenty- four  or  twenty-five  degrees 
of  frost,  Reaumur,  no  wrapping  can  keep  you  quite  warm,  and 


HEBER   TO  HIS    MOTHER  47 

in  bad  roads,  of  which  we  have  had  some  little  experience, 
the  jolting  is  only  equaled  by  the  motion  of  a  ship  in  a 
storm. 

In  the  weather  we  are  very  fortunate,  having  a  fine  clear 
frost,  about  as  mild  as  an  English  Christmas.  Our  first  forty 
hours  were  spent  in  traversing  an  unfertile  and  unlovely 
country,  the  most  fiat  and  uninteresting  I  ever  saw,  with  noth- 
ing but  occasional  patches  of  cultivation,  and  formal  fir- woods, 
without  a  single  feature  of  art  or  nature  which  could  attract 
attention.  Once,  indeed,  from  a  little  elevation,  we  saw  the 
sun  set  to  great  advantage ;  it  was  singular  to  see  it  slowly 
sinking  beneath  the  black  and  perfectly  level  horizon  of  the 
sea  of  land  which  surrounded  us.  The  night  which  followed 
was  distinguished  by  more  jolting  than  usual ;  and  about  sun- 
rise Thornton  drew  the  curtain,  and  cried  out,  *  England!' 
I  started  up,  and  found  we  were  on  the  summit  of  a  low  range 
of  stony  hills,  with  an  enclosed  and  populous  country  before 
us,  and  a  large  town,  Valdai,  which,  with  its  neighborhood, 
had  some  little  resemblance  to  Oxford  as  seen  from  the  Ban- 
bury  road.  This  is,  in  fact,  the  boundary  of  Ancient  Russia ; 
all  beyond  are  the  territories  of  Novogorod,  Istria,  and  other 
countries  they  have  conquered.  The  whole  plain  from'  Valdai 
to  Moscow  is  very  level,  entirely  arable,  generally  common 
fields,  with  some  shabby  enclosures,  thickly  set  with  villages 
and  small  coppices,  in  which  the  firs  begin  to  be  relieved  by 
birch,  lime,  ash,  and  elm.  Tver  and  Torshok  are  large  towns, 
but  have  nothing  in  them  to  detain  a  traveler. 

During  this  journey  I  was  struck  by  observing  the  very  little 
depth  of  snow  on  the  ground,  which  was  not  more,  nor  so  much 
as  we  often  see  in  England,  and  nowhere  prevented  my  distin- 
guishing the  meadows  from  the  stubble-fields.  Mr.  Bayley  said 
he  had  often  made  the  same  observation,  and  that  it  was  not 
peculiar  to  the  present  year.  We  had  our  guns  with  us ;  and 


48  HEBER  TO   HIS   MOTHER 

often  left  the  kibitka  in  pursuit  of  the  large  black  grouse,  of 
which  we  saw  several  —  a  noble  bird,  as  large  as  a  turkey. 
They  were,  however,  so  wild  we  could  not  get  a  fair  shot.  We 
had  some  hopes  of  killing  a  wolf,  as  one  or  two  passed  the 
road  during  the  first  part  of  our  journey ;  but  it  was  during  the 
night,  and  before  we  were  fairly  roused  and  could  get  our  guns 
ready,  they  were  safe  in  the  wood.  In  severe  winters  they 
are  sometimes  easily  shot,  as  they  keep  close  to  the  roadside, 
and,  when  very  much  famished,  will  even  attack  the  horses  in 
a  carriage;  they  are  not  considered  dangerous  to  men,  except 
in  self-defense. 

Of  the  people  we  of  course  saw  but  little;  though,  having 
so  good  an  interpreter  with  us,  we  asked  many  questions, 
and  went  to  several  of  the  cottages,  which  we  found  much 
cleaner  than  we  expected,  but  so  hot  that  we  could  not 
endure  to  remain  in  them  long.  A  Russian  cottage  is  always 
built  of  logs,  cemented  with  clay  and  moss,  and  is  generally 
larger  than  an  English  one ;  it  has  two  stories,  one  of  which 
is  half  sunk,  and  serves  as  a  storehouse ;  two  thirds  of  the 
upper  story  is  taken  up  with  the  principal  room,  where  they 
sit  and  sleep ;  and  the  remainder  is  divided  between  a  closet, 
where  *  they  cook  their  victuals,  and  an  immense  stove,  not 
unlike  an  oven,  which  heats  the  whole  building,  and  the  top 
of  which  —  for  the  chimney  is  only  a  small  flue  on  the  side  — 
serves  as  a  favorite  sitting-  and  sleeping-place,  though  we  could 
scarcely  bear  to  lay  our  hands  on  it.  In  the  corner  of  the 
great  room  always  stands  the  bed  of  the  master  and  mistress 
of  the  family,  generally  very  neat,  and  with  curtains,  some- 
times of  English  cotton ;  the  other  branches  of  the  family  sleep 
on  the  stove  or  the  floor.  In  the  post-houses,  which  differ  in 
no  respect  from  this  description,  we  always  found  good  coffee, 
tea,  and  cream.  Nothing  else  can  be  expected,  and  we  carried 
our  other  provisions  with  us. 


HEBER   TO   HIS    MOTHER  49 

The  country-people  are  all  alike  —  dirty,  good-humored  fel- 
lows, in  sheepskin  gowns,  with  the  wool  inwards.  The  drivers 
crossed  themselves  devoutly  before  beginning  each  stage,  and 
sung  the  whole  way,  or  else  talked  to  their  horses.  A  Russian 
seldom  beats  his  horse,  but  argues  with  him  first,  and  at  last 
goes  no  farther  than  to  abuse  him,  and  call  him  wolf  or  Jew, 
which  last  is  the  lowest  pitch  of  their  contemptuous  expres- 
sions. Their  horses  are  much  larger  and  better  fed  than  the 
Swedish,  and,  when  talked  to  secundum  artem,  trot  very  fast. 
Nothing  on  our  journey  surprised  us  so  much  as  the  crowds  of 
single-horse  sledges,  carrying  provisions  to  Petersburg ;  it  would 
not  be  exaggerating  to  say  that  we  passed,  in  twenty- four  hours, 
about  a  thousand.  Every  article  of  necessary  consumption 
must,  indeed,  be  brought  from  a  distance,  as  the  neighborhood 
of  Petersburg  produces  nothing  to  '  make  trade/  very  little  to 
'  make  eat.'  When  I  have  seen  the  fine  fertile  country,  abound- 
ing in  everything  good  and  desirable,  which  Peter  deserted  for 
the  bogs  and  inclement  latitude  of  the  Neva,  I  wonder  more 
and  more  at  the  boldness  and  success  of  his  project.  It  is  as 
if  the  King  of  England  should  move  his  capital  from  London 
to  Banff,  and  make  a  Windsor  of  Johnny  Groat's  House. 

We  reached  this  vast  overgrown  village,  for  I  can  compare 
it  to  nothing  else,  in  the  moonlight,  and  consequently  saw  it  to 
great  advantage ;  though,  as  we  passed  along  its  broad  irregu- 
lar streets,  we  could  not  but  observe  the  strange  mixture  of  cot- 
tages, gardens,  stables,  barracks,  churches,  and  palaces.  This 
morning  we  have  been  much  delighted  with  a  more  accurate 
survey.  Moscow  is  situated  in  a  fine  plain,  with  the  river 
Moskva  winding  through  it;  the  town  is  a  vast  oval,  covering 
about  as  much  ground  as  London  and  Westminster.  The 
original  city  is  much  smaller;  it  forms  one  quarter  of  the 
town,  under  the  name  of  Kataigorod,  the  city  of  Katyay;  it 
has  preserved  the  name  from  the  time  of  the  conquest  of 


50  HEBER   TO   HIS    MOTHER 

Russia  by  the  Tartars,  when  they  seized  on  the  city,  and  made 
the  Russians  quit  their  houses,  and  build  without  its  walls, 
what  is  now  called  Bielgorod,  or  White  Town.  Kataigorod  is 
still  surrounded  by  its  old  Tartar  wall,  with  high  brick  towers 
of  a  most  singular  construction ;  the  gates  are  ornamented  in 
the  old  Oriental  style,  and  several  of  the  older  churches  have 
been  originally  mosques.  But  it  is  in  the  Kremlin,  or  palace 
quarter,  that  the  principal  vestiges  of  the  Khans  are  displayed  ; 
their  palace  still  exists  entire,  and  is  a  most  curious  and  inter- 
esting piece  of  antiquity.  As  I  walked  up  its  high  staircase, 
and  looked  round  on  the  terraces  and  towers,  and  the  crescents 
yet  remaining  in  their  gilded  spires,  I  could  have  fancied  my- 
self the  hero  of  an  Eastern  tale,  and  expected,  with  some 
impatience,  to  see  the  talking  bird,  the  singing  water,  or  the 
black  slave  with  his  golden  club.  In  this  building,  which  is 
now  called  the  treasury,  are  preserved  the  crowns  of  Kasan, 
Astracan,  and  Siberia,  and  of  some  other  petty  Asiatic  king- 
doms. The  present  imperial  apartments  are  small  and  mean, 
and  are  separated  from  the  Tartar  palace  by  a  little  court. 
The  first  entrance  to  the  Kremlin,  after  passing  the  great 
Saracenic  gate,  is  excessively  striking,  and  the  view  of  the 
town  and  river  would  form  a  noble  panorama.  I  was,  indeed, 
so  well  satisfied  with  what  I  saw  from  the  courtyard,  which  is 
very  elevated,  that  I  was  not  a  little  unwilling  to  do  what  is 
expected  from  all  strangers  —  to  clamber  up  the  tower  of  St. 
Michael,  to  see  a  fine  prospect  turned  into  a  map.  The  tower 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  court;  half-way  up  is  the  gallery 
whence  the  ancient  monarchs  of  Russia,  down  to  the  time 
of  Peter  the  Great,  used  to  harangue  the  assemblies  of  the 
people.  Before  it  is  a  deep  pit,  containing  the  remains  of  the 
famous  bell  cast  by  the  Empress  Anne,  and  about  three  times 
the  size  of  the  great  bell  at  Christ  Church.  It  was  originally 
suspended  on  a  frame  of  wood,  which  was  accidentally  burnt 


HEBER   TO    HIS    MOTHER  51 

down,  and  the  weight  of  the  bell  forced  it,  like  the  helmet  of 
Otranto,  through  the  pavement  into  a  cellar.  On  each  side 
of  the  Michael  tower  is  a  Christianized  mosque,  of  most  strange 
and  barbarous  architecture,  in  one  of  which  the  sovereigns  of 
Russia  are  crowned,  and  in  the  other  they  are  buried.  The 
rest  of  the  Kremlin  is  taken  up  by  public  offices,  barracks,  the 
archiepiscopal  palace,  and  two  or  three  convents.  An  immense 
ditch,  with  a  Tartar  wall,  surrounds  it ;  and  it  is  approached 
by  two  gates,  the  principal  of  which  a  Russian  never  passes 
with  his  hat  on.  .  .  .  The  houses,  with  the  exception  of  some 
vast  palaces  belonging  to  the  nobility,  are  meanness  itself. 
The  shops  are  truly  Asiatic  — dark,  small,  and  huddled  together 
in  long  vaulted  bazaars — and  the  streets  ill-paved  and  -lighted. 
January  10.  Of  the  society  we  have  seen  too  little  to  form 
any  judgment.  We  have  called  on  the  governor,  and  some 
other  persons  to  whom  we  had  letters  of  introduction,  and 
have  been  civilly  received.  We  have  also  been  at  two  private 
concerts,  at  one  of  which  we  met  Madame  Mara,  who  is  now 
here  with  Signor  Florio,  and  who  sung  but  very  carelessly. 
Concerts  are  fashionable  at  Moscow;  and  cards,  as  may  be 
expected  in  a  society  which,  though  they  will  not  allow  it,  is 
certainly  at  present  provincial,  are  much  more  common  than 
at  Petersburg.  The  society  consists  in  a  great  measure,  we 
are  told,  of  families  of  the  old  nobility  and  superannuated 
courtiers,  who  live  in  prodigious  state,  and,  from  what  we  have 
seen,  great  and  almost  cumbersome  hospitality.  Some  of  their 
daughters  seem  tolerably  accomplished,  and  very  good-natured, 
unaffected  girls ;  we  have  seen  nothing  remarkably  beautiful, 
though  the  bloom  and  fresh  complexions  of  Moscow  are  often 
envied  by  the  Petersburg  belles.  We  promise  ourselves  a  great 
deal  of  amusement  and  instruction  from  the  number  of  old 
officers  and  ministers  who  have  figured  in  the  revolution  and 
the  busy  scenes  of  Catherine's  time.  This  being  Christmas 


52         SOUTHEY  TO  HIS  BROTHER 

Day  according  to  the  Russian  calendar,  we  are  going  to  the 
grand  gala  dinner  of  the  governor's.  It  is  necessary  for  us  to 
go  in  full  uniform,  which  indeed  we  must  frequently  do,  as 
'  the  old  courtiers  of  the  queen,  and  the  queen's  old  courtiers ' 
are  much  more  attentive  to  such  distinctions  than  the  circle 
we  have  left  in  Petersburg.  The  English  nation  is  said  to  be 
in  high  favor  here,  and  we  were  much  gratified  by  the  cordial 
manner  in  which  many  persons  expressed  themselves  towards 
us.  We  have  been  rather  fortunate  in  seeing  a  splendid  Greek 
funeral,  attended  by  a  tribe  of  priests,  deacons,  and  archi- 
mandrites, under  the  command  of  one  archbishop  and  two 
subalterns.  The  archbishop  was  a  Circassian,  and  one  of  the 
bishops  a  Georgian.  The  *  Divine  Plato  '  is  not  now  in  Mos- 
cow. I  am  eagerly  expecting  news  from  you,  which,  with 
some  regard  to  the  news  from  Germany,  must  decide  our 
future  tour. 

Believe  me,  dear  Mother, 

Yours  affectionately, 

REGINALD  HEBER. 

XXXV 

Robert  Southey  to  his  Brother  Thomas 

MY   DEAR   TOM  :  Monday,  July  28,  1806. 

For  many  days  I  have  looked  for  a  letter  from  you,  the  three 
lines  announcing  your  arrival  in  England  being  all  which  have 
yet  reached  me.  Yesterday  the  Dr.  and  I  returned  home  after 
a  five  days7  absence,  and  I  was  disappointed  at  finding  no 
tidings  of  you.  We  were  two  days  at  Lloyd's,  and  have  had 
three  days'  mountaineering  —  one  on  the  way  there,  two  on 
our  return  —  through  the  wildest  parts  of  this  wild  country, 
many  times  wishing  you  had  been  with  us.  One  day  we  lost 
our  way  upon  the  mountains,  got  upon  a  summit  where  there 


SOUTHEY  TO  HIS  BROTHER         53 

were  precipices  before  us,  and  found  a  way  down  through  a 
fissure  like  three  sides  of  a  chimney,  where  we  could  reach 
from  side  to  side  and  help  ourselves  with  our  hands.  This 
chimney-way  was  considerably  higher  than  any  house,  and  then 
we  had  an  hour's  descent  afterward  over  loose  stones.  Yester- 
day we  mounted  Great  Gabel  —  one  of  the  highest  mountains 
in  the  country  —  and  had  a  magnificent  view  of  the  Isle  of 
Man  rising  out  of  a  sea  of  light,  for  the  water  lay  like  a  sheet 
of  silver.  This  was  a  digression  from  our  straight  road,  and 
exceedingly  fatiguing  it  was ;  however,  after  we  got  down,  we 
drank  five  quarts  of  milk  between  us,  and  got  home  as  fresh  as 
larks  after  a  walk  of  eleven  hours.  You  will  find  it  harder 
service  than  walking  the  deck  when  you  come  here. 

Our  landlord,  who  lives  in  the  house  adjoining  us,  has  a 
boat,  which  is  as  much  at  our  service  as  if  it  were  our  own ;  of 
this  we  have  voted  you  commander-in-chief  whenever  you  shall 
arrive.  The  lake  is  about  four  miles  in  length,  and  something 
between  one  and  two  in  breadth.  However  tired  you  may  be 
of  the  salt  water,  I  do  not  think  you  will  have  the  same  objec- 
tion to  fresh  when  you  see  this  beautiful  basin,  clear  as  crystal, 
and  shut  in  by  mountains  on  every  side  except  one  opening  to 
the  northwest.  We  are  very  frequently  upon  it,  Harry  and  I 
being  both  tolerably  good  boatmen ;  and  sometimes  we  sit  in 
state  and  the  women  row  us  —  a  way  of  manning  a  boat  which 
will  amuse  you.  The  only  family  with  which  we  are  on  familiar 
terms  live  during  the  summer  and  autumn  on  a  little  island 
here  —  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  this  wide  world.  They 
have  one  long  room,  looking  on  the  lake  from  three  windows, 
affording  the  most  beautiful  views ;  and  in  that  room  you  may 
have  as  much  music,  dancing,  shuttlecocking,  etc.,  as  your 
heart  can  desire.  They  generally  embargo  us  on  water  expedi- 
tions. I  know  not  whether  you  like  dining  under  a  tree  as 
well  as  with  the  conveniences  of  chairs  and  table,  and  a  roof 


54  BYRON   TO   DRURY 

over  your  head  —  which  I  confess  please  me  better  than  a  seat 
upon  any  moss,  however  cushiony,  and  in  any  shade,  however 
romantic ;  if,  however,  you  do,  here  are  some  delightful  bays 
at  the  head  of  the  lake,  in  any  of  which  we  may  land;  and  if 
you  love  fishing,  you  may  catch  perch  enough  on  the  way  for 
the  boat's  company,  and  perhaps  a  jack  or  two  into  the  bargain. 
One  main  advantage  which  this  country  possesses  over  Wales 
is  that  there  are  no  long  tracks  of  desolation  to  cross  between 
one  beautiful  spot  and  another.  We  are  sixteen  miles  only 
from  Winandermere,  and  three  other  lakes  are  on  the  way  to 
it;  sixteen  only  from  Wastwater,  as  many  from  Ulswater, 
nine  from  Buttermere  and  Crurnmock.  Lloyd  expects  you 
will  give  him  a  few  days  —  a  few  they  must  be ;  for  though  I 
shall  be  with  you,  we  will  not  spare  you  long  from  home ;  but 
his  house  stands  delightfully,  and  puts  a  large  part  of  the  finest 
scenery  within  our  reach.  You  will  find  him  very  friendly,  and 
will  like  his  wife  much  —  she  is  a  great  favorite  with  me.  The 
Bishop  of  Llandaff  lives  near  them,  to  whom  I  have  lately  been 
introduced.  God  bless  you  ! 

R.  S. 

XXXVI 

Lord  Byron  to  Henry  Drury 

MY  DEAR  DRURY  :  VolaSe  friSate>  off  Ushant'  Jul*  I7'  l8l]L 

After  two  years'  absence  (on  the  second)  and  some  odd 
days,  I  am  approaching  your  country.  The  day  of  our  arrival 
you  will  see  by  the  outside  date  of  my  letter.  At  present  we 
are  becalmed  comfortably,  close  to  Brest  Harbor ;  I  have 
never  been  so  near  it  since  I  left  Duck  Puddle.  We  left 
Malta  thirty-four  days  ago,  and  have  had  a  tedious  passage 
of  it.  You  will  either  see  or  hear  from  or  of  me  soon  after  the 
receipt  of  this,  as  I  pass  through  town  to  repair  my  irreparable 


JANE   AUSTEN   TO   HER   SISTER  55 

affairs ;  and  thence  I  want  to  go  to  Notts  and  raise  rents,  and 
to  Lanes l  and  sell  collieries,  and  back  to  London  and  pay  debts, 
for  it  seems  I  shall  neither  have  coals  nor  comfort  till  I  go 
down  to  Rochdale  in  person. 

I  have  brought  home  some  marbles  for  Hobhouse ;  for 
myself,  four  Athenian  skulls,  dug  out  of  sarcophagi,  a  phial  of 
Attic  hemlock,  four  live  tortoises,  a  greyhound  (died  on  the 
passage),  two  live  Greek  servants  —  one  an  Athenian,  t'other 
a  Yaniote,  who  can  speak  nothing  but  Romaic  and  Italian  — 
and  myself,  as  Moses  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  says  slyly, 
and  I  may  say  it  too,  for  I  have  as  little  cause  to  boast  of  my 
expedition  as  he  had  of  his  to  the  fair. 

I  wrote  to  you  from  the  Cyanean  Rocks  to  tell  you  I  had 
swam  \_sic~\  from  Sestos  to  Abydos  —  have  you  received  my 
letter?  Hodgson,  I  suppose,  is  four  deep  by  this  time.  What 
would  he  have  given  to  have  seen,  like  me,  the  real  Parnassus, 
where  I  robbed  the  Bishop  of  Chrissae  of  a  book  of  geography  ! 
—  but  this  I  only  call  plagiarism,  as  it  was  done  within  an 
hour's  ride  of  Delphi.  Yours 

BYRON. 

XXXVII 
Jane  Austen  to  Jier  Sister 

Godmersham  Park,  Thursday,  [Sept.  23,  1813]. 
MY  DEAREST  CASSANDRA  : 

Thank  you  five  hundred  and  forty  times  for  the  exquisite 
piece  of  workmanship  which  was  brought  into  the  room  this 
morning  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  with  some  very  inferior 
works  of  art  in  the  same  way,  and  which  I  read  with  high  glee, 
much  delighted  with  everything  it  told,  whether  good  or  bad. 
It  is  so  rich  in  striking  intelligence  that  I  hardly  know  what  to 

1  Lancashire.  —  EDS. 


56  JANE  AUSTEN    TO   HER   SISTER 

reply  to  first.  I  believe  finery  must  have  it.  I  am  extremely 
glad  you  like  the  poplin.  I  thought  it  would  have  my  mother's 
approbation,  but  was  not  so  confident  of  yours.  Remember 
that  it  is  a  present.  Do  not  refuse  me ;  1  am  very  rich. 

Mrs.  Clement  is  very  welcome  to  her  little  boy,  and  to  my 
congratulations  into  the  bargain,  if  ever  you  think  of  giving 
them.  I  hope  she  will  do  well.  Her  sister  in  Lucina,  Mrs.  H. 
Gipps,  does  too  well,  we  think.  Mary  P.  wrote  on  Sunday 
that  she  had  been  three  days  on  the  sofa.  Sackree  does  not 
approve  it. 

Well,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  Mrs.  Hulbart's  not  com- 
ing to  you,  and  I  am  happy  to  hear  of  the  honey.  I  was 
thinking  of  it  the  other  day.  Let  me  know  when  you  begin 
the  new  tea  and  the  new  white  wine.  My  present  elegances 
have  not  made  me  "indifferent  to  such  matters.  I  am  still  a 
cat  if  I  see  a  mouse. 

I  am  glad  you  like  our  caps,  but  Fanny  is  out  of  conceit 
with  hers  already ;  she  finds  that  she  has  been  buying  a  new 
cap  without  having  a  new  pattern,  which  is  true  enough.  She 
is  rather  out  of  luck  to  like  neither  her  gown  nor  her  cap,  but 
I  do  not  much  mind  it,  because,  besides  that  I  like  them  both 
myself,  I  consider  it  as  a  thing  of  course  at  her  time  of  life  — 
one  of  the  sweet  taxes  of  youth  to  choose  in  a  hurry  and  make 
bad  bargains. 

I  wrote  to  Charles  yesterday,  and  Fanny  has  had  a  letter 
from  him  to-day,  principally  to  make  inquiries  about  the  time 
of  their  visit  here,  to  which  mine  was  an  answer  beforehand ; 
so  he  will  probably  write  again  soon  to  fix  his  week.  I  am 
best  pleased  that  Cassy  does  not  go  to  you. 

Now  what  have  we  been  doing  since  I  wrote  last?  The  Mr. 
K.'s  [Knatchbulls]  came  a  little  before  dinner  on  Monday,  and 
Edward  went  to  the  church  with  the  two  seniors,  but  there  is 
no  inscription  yet  drawn  up.  They  are  very  good-natured,  you 


ROGERS   TO   MOORE  57 

know,  and  civil,  and  all  that,  but  are  not  particularly  super- 
fine ;  however,  they  ate  their  dinner  and  drank  their  tea,  and 
went  away,  leaving  their  lovely  Wadham  in  our  arms,  and  I 
wish  you  had  seen  Fanny  and  me  running  backwards  and  for- 
wards with  his  breeches  from  the  little  chintz  to  the  white 
room  before  we  went  to  bed,  in  the  greatest  of  frights  lest  he 
should  come  upon  us  before  we  had  done  it  all.  There  had 
been  a  mistake  in  the  housemaids'  preparation,  and  they  were 
gone  to  bed.  He  seems  a  very  harmless  sort  of  young  man, 
frothing  to  like  or  dislike  in  him  —  goes  out  shooting  or  hunt- 
ing with  the  two  others  all  the  morning,  and  plays  at  whist 
and  makes  queer  faces  in  the  evening.  .  .  . 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  AUSTEN. 

XXXVIII 
Samuel  Rogers  to   Thomas  Moore 

MY  DEAR  MOORE  :  Venice>  October  17,  1814. 

Last  night  in  my  gondola  I  made  a  vow  I  would  write  you 
a  letter  if  it  was  only  to  beg  you  would  write  to  me  at  Rome. 
Like  the  great  Marco  Polo,  however,  whose  tomb  I  saw  to-day, 
I  have  a  secret  wish  to  astonish  you  with  my  travels,  and  would 
take  you  with  me,  as  you  would  not  go  willingly,  from  London 
to  Paris,  and  from  Paris  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  so  on 
to  this  city  of  romantic  adventure,  the  place  from  which  he 
started.  I  set  out  in  August  last,  with  my  sister  and  Mackin- 
tosh. He  parted  with  us  in  Switzerland,  since  which  time  we 
have  traveled  on  together,  and  happy  should  we  have  been 
could  you  and  Psyche  have  made  a  quartet  of  it.  I  hope  all 
her  predictions  have  long  ago  been  fulfilled  to  your  mind,  and 
that  she,  and  you,  and  the  bambini**-  are  all  as  snug  and  as 
l  Italian  for  '  babies.' —  EDS. 


58  ROGERS   TO   MOORE 

happy  as  you  can  wish  to  be.  By  the  way,  I  forgot  one  of 
your  family,  who,  I  hope,  is  still  under  your  roof.  I  mean 
one  of  nine  sisters  —  the  one  I  have  more  than  once  made 
love  to.  With  another  of  them,  too,  all  the  world  knows  your 
good  fortune.  Apropos  of  love,  and  such  things,  is  Lord  Byron 
to  be  married  to  Miss  Milbanke  at  last?  I  have  heard  it. 

But  to  proceed  to  business :  Chamouny,  and  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  Voltaire's  chamber  at  Ferney,  Gibbon's  terrace  at 
Lausanne,  Rousseau's  Isle  of  St.  Pierre,  the  Lake  of  Lucerne, 
and  the  little  cantons,  the  passage  over  the  Alps,  the  Lago 
Maggiore,  Milan,  Verona,  Padua,  Venice  —  what  shall  I  begin 
with?  but  I  believe  I  must  refer  you  to  my  three  quartos 
on  the  subject,  whenever  they  choose  to  appear.  The  most 
wonderful  thing  we  have  seen  is  Bonaparte's  road  over  the 
Alps  —  as  smooth  as  that  in  Hyde  Park,  anonoT^steeper  than 
St.  James  Street. 

We  left  Savoy  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  slept  at  Domo 
d'Ossola  in  Italy  that  night.  For  twenty  miles  we  descended 
through  a  mountain  pass,  as  rocky,  and  often  narrower,  than 
the  narrowest  part  of  Dovedale ;  the  road  being  sometimes 
cut  out  of  the  mountain,  and  three  times  carried  through  it, 
leaving  the  torrent  —  and  such  a  torrent !  —  to  work  its  way 
by  itself.  The  passages,  or  galleries,  as  I  believe  the  French 
engineers  call  them,  were  so  long  as  to  require  large  openings 
here  and  there  for  light,  and  the  roof  was  hung  with  icicles, 
which  the  carriage  shattered  as  it  passed  along,  and  which  fell 
to  the  ground  with  a  shrill  sound.  We  were  eight  hours  in 
climbing  to  the  top,  and  only  three  in  descending.  Our 
wheel  was  never  locked,  and  our  horses  were  almost  always 
in  a  gallop. 

But  I  must  talk  to  you  a  little  about  Venice.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  I  felt  when  the  postillion  turned  gaily  about,  and, 
pointing  with  his  whip,  cried  out,  '  Venezia  ! '  For  there  it 


ROGERS   TO   MOORE  59 

was,  sure  enough,  with  its  long  line  of  domes  and  turrets 
glittering  in  the  sun.  I  walk  about  here  all  day  long  in  a 
dream.  '  Is  that  the  Rialto?'  I  say  to  myself.  'Is  this  St. 
Mark's  Place  ?  Do  I  see  the  Adriatic  ?  '  I  think  if  you  and  I 
were  together  here,  my  dear  Moore,  we  might  manufacture 
something  from  the  Ponte  dei  Sospiri,  the  Scala  dei  Giganti, 
the  Piombi,  the  Pozzi,  and  the  thousand  ingredients  of  mystery 
and  terror  that  are  here  at  every  turn. 

Nothing  can  be  more  luxurious  than  a  gondola  and  its  little 
black  cabin,  in  which  you  can  fly  about  unseen,  the  gondo- 
liers so  silent  all  the  while.  They  dip  their  oars  as  if  they 
were  afraid  of  disturbing  you,  yet  you  fly.  As  you  are  rowed 
through  one  of  the  narrow  streets,  often  do  you  catch  the 
notes  of  a  guitar,  accompanied  by  a  female  voice,  through 
some  open  window ;  and  at  night  on  the  Grand  Canal,  how 
amusing  is  it  to  observe  the  moving  lights  —  every  gondola 
has  its  light  —  one  now  and  then  shooting  across  at  a  little 
distance,  and  vanishing  into  a  smaller  canal.  Oh,  if  you  had 
any  pursuit  of  love  or  pleasure,  how  nervous  would  they  make 
you,  not  knowing  their  contents  or  their  destination  !  and  how 
infinitely  more  interesting,  as  more  mysterious,  their  silence 
than  the  noise  of  carriage-wheels  !  Before  the  steps  of  the 
Opera  House  they  are  drawn  up  in  array  with  their  shining 
prows  of  white  metal,  waiting  for  the  company.  One  man 
remains  in  your  boat,  while  the  other  stands  at  the  door  of 
your  loge^  When  you  come  out  he  attends  you  down,  and 
calling  '  Pietro  ! '  or  '  Giacomo  ! '  is  answered  from  the  water, 
and  away  you  go.  The  gliding  motion  is  delightful,  and, 
would  calm  you  after  any  scene  in  a  casino.  The  gondolas 
of  the  foreign  ministers  carry  the  national  flag. 

I  think  you  would  be  pleased  with  an  Italian  theatre.  It 
is  lighted  only  from  the  stage,  and  the  soft  shadows  that  are 

l  Box.  —  EDS. 


60  ROGERS   TO   MOORE 

thrown  over  it  produce  a  very  visionary  effect.  Here  and  there 
the  figures  in  a  box  are  illuminated  from  within,  and  glimmer- 
ing and  partial  lights  are  almost  magical.  Sometimes  the 
curtains  are  drawn,  and  you  may  conceive  what  you  please. 
This  is  indeed  a  fairyland,  and  Venice  particularly  so.  If  at 
Naples  you  see  most  with  the  eye,  and  at  Rome  with  the 
memory,  surely  at  Venice  you  see  most  with  the  imagination. 
But  enough  of  Venice.  To-morrow  we  bid  adieu  to  it  —  most 
probably  I  shall  never  see  it  again.  We  shall  pass  through 
Ferrara  to  Bologna,  then  cross  the  Apennines  to  Florence, 
and  so  on  to  Rome,  where  I  shall  look  for  a  line  from 
you. 

Pray,  have  you  sermonized  the  discordant  brothers  ?  I  hope 
you  have,  and  not  forgotten  yourself  on  the  occasion.  When 
you  write  to  Tunbridge,  pray  remember  me.  Tell  Lady  D.  1 
passed  the  little  Lake  of  Lowertz,  and  saw  the  melancholy 
effects  of  the  downfall.  It  is  now  a  scene  of  desolation,  and 
the  little  town  of  Goldau  is  buried  many  fathoms  deep.  It  is 
a  sad  story,  and  you  shall  have  it  when  we  meet.  I  received 
a  very  kind  letter  from  her  at  Tunbridge,  and  mean  to  answer 
it.  I  hope  to  meet  you  in  London -town  when  you  visit  it 
next ;  at  least  I  shall  endeavor  to  do  so.  My  sister  unites 
with  me  in  kindest  remembrance  to  Mrs.  Moore ;  and  pray, 
believe  me  to  be  Yours  ever> 

S.  R. 

At  Verona  we  were  shown  Juliet's  tomb  in  a  convent  garden  ! 
In  the  evening  we  went  to  the  play,  but  saw  neither  Mercutio 
nor  '  the  two  Gentlemen  ?  there. 


JANE   AUSTEN    TO    HER   NIECE  6l 

XXXIX 
Jane  Austen  to  her  Niece 

MY  DEAR  ANNA  :  Hans  place'  Nov-  28>  l8l4- 

I  assure  you  we  all  came  away  very  much  pleased  with  our 
visit.  We  talked  of  you  for  about  a  mile  and  a  half  with  great 
satisfaction ;  and  I  have  been  just  sending  a  very  good  report 
of  you  to  Miss  Benn,  with  a  full  account  of  your  dress  for 
Susan  and  Maria. 

We  were  all  at  the  play  last  night  to  see  Miss  O'Neil  in 
Isabella.  I  do  not  think  she  was  quite  equal  to  my  expecta- 
tions ;  I  fancy  I  want  something  more  than  can  be,  I  took 
two  pocket-handkerchiefs,  but  had  very  little  occasion  for 
either.  She  is  an  elegant  creature,  however,  and  hugs  Mr. 
Young  delightfully. 

I  am  going  this  morning  to  see  the  little  girls  in  Keppel 
Street.  Gassy  was  excessively  interested  about  your  marriage 
when  she  heard  of  it,  which  was  not  until  she  was  to  drink 
your  health  on  the  wedding-day.  She  asked  a  thousand  ques- 
tions in  her  usual  manner  —  what  he  said  to  you,  and  what 
you  said  to  him.  If  your  uncle  were  at  home,  he  would  send 
his  best  love,  but  I  will  not  impose  any  base  fictitious  remem- 
brances on  you ;  mine  I  can  honestly  give,  and  remain 

Your  affectionate  aunt, 

J.  AUSTEN. 

XL 

John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 
MY  DEAR   FANNY  :  Wentworth  Place,  March  13,  [1819]. 

I  have  been  employed  lately  in  writing  to  George  ;  I  do  not 
send  him  very  short  letters,  but  keep  on  day  after  day.  There 
were  some  young  men  I  think  I  told  you  of  who  were  going 


62  KEATS  TO   HIS    SISTER 

to  the  settlement ;  they  have  changed  their  minds,  fand  I  am 
disappointed  in  my  expectation  of  sending  letters  by  them. 
I  went  lately  to  the  only  dance  I  have  been  to  these  twelve 
months,  or  shall  go  to  for  twelve  months  again.  It  was  to  our 
brother-in-law's  cousin's ;  she  gave  a  dance  for  her  birthday, 
and  I  went  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Wylie.  I  am  waiting  every 
day  to  hear  from  George.  I  trust  there  is  no  harm  in  the 
silence ;  other  people  are  in  the  same  expectation  as  we  are. 
On  looking  at  your  seal,  I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  done  or 
not  with  a  tassie  —  it  seems  to  me  to  be  paste.  As  I  went 
through  Leicester  Square  lately  I  was  going  to  call  and  buy 
you  some,  but  not  knowing  but  you  might  have  some,  I  would 
not  run  the  chance  of  buying  duplicates.  Tell  me  if  you  have 
any,  or  if  you  would  like  any,  and  whether  you  would  rather 
have  motto  ones  like  that  with  which  I  seal  this  letter ;  or 
heads  of  great  men  such  as  Shakespeare,  Milton,  etc. ;  or 
fancy  pieces  of  art,  such  as  Fame,  Adonis,  etc.  —  those  gentry 
you  read  of  at  the  end  of  the  English  Dictionary.  Tell  me 
also  if  you  want  any  particular  book,  or  pencils,  or  drawing- 
paper  —  anything  but  live  stock,  though  I  will  not  now  be 
very  severe  on  it,  remembering  how  fond  I  used  to  be  of  gold- 
finches, tomtits,  minnows,  mice,  ticklebacks,  dace,  cock  sal- 
mons, and  the  whole  tribe  of  the  bushes  and  the  brooks ;  but 
verily  they  are  better  in  the  trees  and  the  water  —  though  I 
must  confess  even  now  a  partiality  for  a  handsome  globe  of 
goldfish  ;  then  I  would  have  it  hold  ten  pails  of  water,  and  be 
fed  continually  fresh  through  a  cool  pipe,  with  another  pipe  to 
let  through  the  floor  —  well  ventilated,  they  would  preserve  all 
their  beautiful  silver  and  crimson.  Then  I  would  put  it  before 
a  handsome  painted  window,  and  shade  it  all  round  with 
myrtles  and  japonicas.  I  should  like  the  window  to  open 
onto  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  there  I  'd  sit  and  read  all  day 
like  the  picture  of  somebody  reading.  The  weather  now  and 


SHELLEY  TO  MR.  AND   MRS.  GISBORNE         63 

then  begins  to  feel  like  spring;  and  therefore  I  have  begun 
my  walks  on  the  heath  again.  Mrs.  Dike  is  getting  better 
than  she  has  been,  as  she  has  at  length  taken  a  physician's 
advice.  She  ever  and  anon  asks  after  you,  and  always  bids 
me  remember  her  in  my  letters  to  you.  She  is  going  to  leave 
Hampstead,  for  the  sake  of  educating  their  son  Charles  at  the 
Westminster  School.  We  —  Mr.  Brown  and  I  —  shall  leave 
in  the  beginning  of  May;  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  do  or 
where  be  all  the  next  summer.  Mrs.  Reynolds  has  had  a  sick 
house ;  but  they  are  all  well  now.  You  see  what  news  I  can 
send  you  I  do ;  we  all  live  one  day  like  the  other,  as  you  do 
—  the  only  difference  is  being  sick  and  well  —  with  the  vari- 
ations of  single  and  double  knocks,  and  the  story  of  a  dreadful 
fire  in  the  newspapers.  I  mentioned  Mr.  Brown's  name,  yet 
I  do  not  think  I  ever  said  a  word  about  him  to  you.  He  is 
a  friend  of  mine  of  two  years'  standing,  with  whom  I  walked 
through  Scotland,  who  has  been  very  kind  to  me  in  many  things 
when  I  most  wanted  his  assistance,  and  with  whom  I  keep 
house  until  the  first  of  May  —  you  will  know  him  some  day. 
The  name  of  the  young  man  who  came  with  me  is  William 

Haslam. 

Ever  your  affectionate  brother, 

JOHN. 

XLI 

P.  B.  Shelley  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G  is  bo  me 

MY  DEAR  FRIENDS  :  Rome'  APril  6'  l8l9- 

A  combination  of  circumstances  which  Mary  will  explain  to 
you  leads  us  back  to  Naples  in  June,  or  rather  the  end  of  May, 
where  we  shall  remain  until  the  ensuing  winter.  We  shall  take 
a  house  at  Portici  or  Castellamare  until  late  in  the  autumn. 

The  object  of  this  letter  is  to  ask  you  to  spend  this  period 
with  us.  There  is  no  society  which  we  have  regretted  or  desired 


64  KEATS   TO   HIS    SISTER 

so  much  as  yours,  and  in  our  solitude  the  benefit  of  your  con- 
cession would  be  greater  than  I  can  express.  What  is  a  sail  to 
Naples?  It  is  the  season  of  tranquil  weather  and  prosperous 
winds.  If  I  knew  the  magic  that  lay  in  any  given  form  of  words, 
I  would  employ  them  to  persuade  ;  but  I  fear  that  all  I  can  say 
is,  as  you  know  with  truth,  we  desire  that  you  would  come  — 
we  wish  to  see  you.  You  came  to  see  Mary  at  Lucca,  directly 
I  had  departed  to  Venice.  It  is  not  our  custom,  when  we  can 
help  it,  any  more  than  it  is  yours,  to  divide  our  pleasures. 

What  shall  I  say  to  entice  you  ?  We  shall  have  a  piano,  and 
some  books,  and  —  little  else,  besides  ourselves.  But  what  will 
be  most  inviting  to  you,  you  will  give  much,  though  you  may 
receive  but  little,  pleasure. 

But  whilst  I  write  this  with  more  desire  than  hope,  yet  some 
of  that,  perhaps  the  project  may  fall  into  your  designs.  It  is 
intolerable  to  think  of  your  being  buried  at  Livorno.1  The  suc- 
cess assured  by  Mr.  Reveley's  talents  requires  another  scene. 
You  may  have  decided  to  take  this  summer  to  consider  —  and 
why  not  with  us  at  Naples,  rather  than  at  Livorno?  .  .  . 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

P.  B.  SHELLEY. 

XLII 
John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 

MY  DEAR   FANNY:  Winchester,  August  28,  [1819]. 

You  must  forgive  me  for  suffering  so  long  a  space  to  elapse 
between  the  dates  of  my  letters.  It  is  more  than  a  fortnight 
since  I  left  Shanklin,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  being  near  a 
tolerable  library,  which  after  all  is  not  to  be  found  in  this  place. 
However,  we  like  it  very  much ;  it  is  the  pleasantest  town  I 
ever  was  in,  and  has  the  most  recommendations  of  any.  There 
1  Leghorn.  —  EDS. 


KEATS   TO   HIS   SISTER  65 

is  a  fine  cathedral,  which  to  me  is  always  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment, part  of  it  built  fourteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  more 
modern  by  a  magnificent  man  —  you  may  have  read  of  in 
your  history  —  called  William  of  Wickham.  The  whole  town  is 
beautifully  wooded.  From  the  hill  at  the  eastern  extremity 
you  see  a  prospect  of  streets  and  old  buildings,  mixed  up 
with  trees.  Then  there  are  the  most  beautiful  streams  about 
I  ever  saw,  full  of  trout.  There  is  the  foundation  of  St.  Croix 
about  half  a  mile  in  the  fields  —  a  charity  greatly  abused.  We 
have  a  collegiate  school,  a  Roman  Catholic  school,  a  chapel 
ditto,  and  a  nunnery  !  And  what  improves  it  all  is,  the  fashion- 
able inhabitants  are  all  gone  to  Southampton.  We  are  quiet, 
except  a  fiddle  that  now  and  then  goes  like  a  gimlet  through 
my  ears,  our  landlady's  son  not  being  quite  a  proficient.  .  .  . 

The  delightful  weather  we  have  had  for  two  months  is  the 
highest  gratification  I  could  receive  —  no  chilled  red  noses,  no 
shivering,  but  fair  atmosphere  to  think  in,  a  clean  towel  marked 
with  the  mangle,  and  a  basin  of  clear  water  to  drench  one's 
face  with  ten  times  a  day ;  no  need  of  much  exercise,  a  mile 
a  day  being  quite  sufficient.  My  greatest  regret  is  that  I  have 
not  been  well  enough  to  bathe,  though  I  have  been  two  months 
by  the  seaside,  and  live  now  close  to  delicious  bathing.  Still 
I  enjoy  the  weather;  I  adore  fine  weather,  as  the  greatest 
blessing  I  can  have.  Give  me  books,  fruit,  French  wine,  and 
fine  weather,  and  a  little  music  out  of  doors,  played  by  some- 
body I  do  not  know  —  not  pay  the  price  of  one's  time  for  a 
jig,  but  a  little  chance  music  —  and  I  can  pass  a  summer  very 
quietly  without  caring  much  about  fat  Louis,  fat  Regent,  or 
the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

Why  have  you  not  written  to  me?  because  you  were  in 
expectation  of  George's  letter  and  so  waited  ?  .  .  .  I  should 
like  now  to  promenade  round  your  gardens,  apple-tasting, 
pear-tasting,  plum-judging,  apricot-nibbling,  peach-scrunching, 


66  KEATS   TO   HIS    SISTER 

nectarine- sucking,  and  melon-carving.  I  have  also  a  great 
feeling  for  antiquated  cherries  full  of  sugar  cracks,  and  a  white 
currant-tree  kept  for  company.  I  admire  lolling  on  a  lawn  by 
a  water-lilied  pond,  to  eat  white  currants  and  see  goldfish ; 
and  go  to  the  fair  in  the  evening  if  I'm  good.  There  is  not 
hope  for  that  —  one  is  sure  to  get  into  some  mess  before  even- 
ing. Have  these  hot  days  I  brag  of  so  much  been  well  or  ill 
for  your  health?  Let  me  hear  soon. 

Your  affectionate  brother. 

• 

JOHN. 

XLIII 
John  Keats  to  his  Sister  Fanny 

Wentworth  Place,  Tuesday  morn,  [8  February,  1820]. 
MY  DEAR  FANNY  : 

I  had  a  slight  return  of  fever  last  night,  which  terminated 
favorably,  and  I  am  now  tolerably  well,  though  weak  from 
[the]  small  quantity  of  food  to  which  I  am  obliged  to  confine 
myself ;  I  am  sure  a  mouse  would  starve  upon  it.  Mrs.  Wylie 
came  yesterday.  I  have  a  very  pleasant  room  for  a  sick  per- 
son. A  sofa  bed  is  made  up  for  me  in  the  front  parlor,  which 
looks  on  to  the  grass-plot,  as  you  remember  Mrs.  Dilke's  does. 
How  much  more  comfortable  than  a  dull  room  up-stairs,  where 
one  gets  tired  of  the  pattern  of  the  bed-curtains  !  Besides  I 
see  all  that  passes  —  for  instance  now,  this  morning,  if  I  had 
been  in  my  own  room  I  should  not  have  seen  the  coals  brought 
in.  On  Sunday,  between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one,  I  descried 
a  pot-boy  —  I  conjectured  it  might  be  the  one  o'clock  beer. 
Old  women  with  bobbins,  and  red  cloaks,  and  unpresuming 
bonnets,  I  see  creeping  about  the  heath  —  gipsies  after  hare 
skins  and  silver  spoons.  Then  goes  by  a  fellow  with  a  wooden 
clock  under  his  arm  that  strikes  a  hundred  and  more.  Then 


SOUTHEY  TO    HIS    DAUGHTERS  6/ 

comes  the  old  French  emigrant  —  who  has  been  very  well-to- 
do  in  France  —  with  his  hands  joined  behind  on  his  hips,  and 
his  face  full  of  political  schemes.  Then  passes  Mr.  David  Lewis, 
a  very  good-natured,  good-looking  old  gentleman  who  has  been 
very  kind  to  Tom  and  George  and  me.  As  for  those  fellows, 
the  brickmakers,  they  are  always  passing  to  and  fro.  I  mustn't 
forget  the  two  old  maiden  ladies  in  Well  Walk  who  have  a  lap- 
dog  between  them  that  they  are  very  anxious  about.  It  is  a 
corpulent  little  beast,  whom  it  is  necessary  to  coax  along  with 
an  ivory-tipped  cane.  Carlo,  our  neighbor  Mrs.  Brawne's  dog, 
and  it  meet  sometimes.  Lappy  thinks  Carlo  a  devil  of  a  fel- 
low, and  so  do  his  mistresses.  Well  they  may  —  he  would  sweep 
'em  all  down  at  a  run,  all  for  the  joke  of  it.  I  shall  desire  him 
to  peruse  the  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frogs,  though  he  prefers 
the  tongues l  and  the  bones.  You  shall  hear  from  me  again  the 

day  after  to-morrow. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

JOHN  KEATS. 

XLIV 
Robert  Southey  to  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel  Soutkey 

June  26,  1820. 

Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,  you  have  been  very  good  girls, 
and  have  written  me  very  nice  letters,  with  which  I  was  much 
pleased.  This  is  the  last  letter  which  I  can  write  in  return; 
and  as  I  happen  to  have  a  quiet  hour  to  myself  here  at 
Streatham  on  Monday  noon,  I  will  employ  that  hour  in  relating 
to  you  the  whole  history  and  manner  of  my  being  ell-ell-deed 
at_Oxford  by  the  Vice-Chancellor. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  because  I  had  written  a  great 
many  good  books,  and  more  especially  the  Life  of  Wesley,  it 

1  A  pun.  —  EDS. 


68  SOUTHEY  TO   HIS    DAUGHTERS 

was  made  known  to  me  by  the  Vice-Chancellor,  through  Mr. 
Heber,  that  the  University  of  Oxford  were  desirous  of  showing 
me  the  only  mark  of  honor  in  their  power  to  bestow,  which 
was  that  of  making  me  an  LL.D.  —  that  is  to  say  a  Doctor  of 
Law.1  Now  you  are  to  know  that  some  persons  are  ell-ell-deed 
every  year  at  Oxford,  at  the  great  annual  meeting  which  is 
called  Commemoration.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this  :  first, 
that  the  University  may  do  itself  honor  by  bringing  persons  of 
distinction  to  receive  the  degree  publicly  as  a  mark  of  honor ; 
and,  secondly,  that  certain  persons  in  inferior  offices  may  share 
in  the  fees  paid  by  those  upon  whom  the  ceremony  of  ell- 
ell-deeing  is  performed.  For  the  first  of  these  reasons  the 
Emperor  Alexander  was  made  a  Doctor  of  Laws  at  Oxford, 
the  King  of  Prussia,  and  old  Blucher,  and  Platoff ;  and  for  the 
second,  the  same  degree  is  conferred  upon  noblemen  and 
persons  of  fortune  and  consideration  who  are  any  ways  con- 
nected with  the  University,  or  city,  or  county  of  Oxford. 

The  ceremony  of  ell-ell-deeing  is  performed  in  a  large  cir- 
cular building  called  the  theatre,  of  which  I  will  show  you  a 
print  when  I  return;  and  this  theatre  is  filled  with  people. 
The  undergraduates  —  that  is  the  young  men  who  are  called 
' cathedrals'  at  Keswick  —  entirely  fill  the  gallery.  Under  the 
gallery  there  are  seats,  which  are  filled  with  ladies  in  full 
dress,  separated  from  the  gentlemen.  Between  these  two 
divisions  of  the  ladies  are  seats  for  the  Heads  of  Houses,  and 
the  Doctors  of  Law,  Physic,  and  Divinity.  In  the  middle  of 
these  seats  is  the  Vice-Chancellor's,  opposite  the  entrance, 
which  is  under  the  orchestra.  On  the  right  and  left  are  two 
kinds  of  pulpits,  from  which  the  prize  essays  and  poems  are 
recited.  The  area,  or  middle  of  the  theatre,  is  filled  with 
Bachelors  and  Masters  of  Art,  and  with  as  many  strangers  as 
can  obtain  admission.  Before  the  steps  which  lead  up  to 

l  So  in  the  original.  —  EDS. 


SOUTHEY   TO    HIS    DAUGHTERS  69 

the  seats  of  the  Doctors,  and  directly  in  front  of  the  Vice- 
Chancellor,  a  wooden  bar  is  let  down,  covered  with  red  cloth, 
and  on  each  side  of  this  the  beadles  stand  in  their  robes. 

When  the  theatre  is  full,  the  Vice- Chancellor  and  the  Heads 
of  Houses  and  the  Doctors  enter.  These  persons  who  are  to 
be  ell-ell-deed  remain  without  in  the  Divinity  Schools  in  their 
robes,  till  the  convocation  have  signified  their  assent  to  the 
ell-ell-deeing,  and  then  they  are  led  into  the  theatre  one  after 
another,  in  a  line,  into  the  middle  of  the  area,  the  people  first 
making  a  lane  for  them.  The  Professor  of  Civil  Law,  Dr. 
Phillimore,  went  before,  and  made  a  long  speech  in  Latin, 
telling  the  Vice-Chancellor  and  the  dignissimi  what  excellent 
persons  we  were  who  were  now  to  be  ell-ell-deed.  Then  he 
took  us  one  by  one  by  the  hand,  and  presented  each  in  his 
turn,  pronouncing  his  name  aloud,  saying  who  and  what  he 
was,  and  calling  him  many  laudatory  names  ending  in  issimus. 
The  audience  then  cheered  loudly  to  show  their  approbation 
of  the  person;  the  Vice-Chancellor  stood  up,  and,  repeating 
the  first  words  in  issime,  ell-ell-deed  him ;  the  beadles  lifted 
up  the  bar  of  separation,  and  the  new-made  Doctor  went  up 
the  steps,  and  took  his  seat  among  the  dignissimi  Doctors. 

Oh,  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,  if  you  had  seen  me  that  day  ! 
I  was  like  other  issimis,  dressed  in  a  great  robe  of  the  finest 
scarlet  cloth,  with  sleeves  of  rose-colored  silk,  and  I  had  in  my 
hand  a  black  velvet  cap  like  a  beefeater,  for  the  use  of  which 
dress  I  paid  one  guinea  for  that  day.  Dr.  Phillimore,  who 
was  an  old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  and  a  very  good  man,  took 
me  by  the  hand  in  my  turn,  and  presented  me  j  upon  which 
there  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands  and  huzzaing  at  my  name. 
When  that  was  over,  the  Vice- Chancellor  stood  up  and  said 
these  words,  whereby  I  was  ell-ell-deed  :  '  Doctissime  et  orna- 
tissime  vir,  ego,  pro  auctoritate  mea  et  totius  universitatis  hujus, 
admitto  te  ad  gradum  doctoris  in  jure  civili,  honoris  causa.' 


70  LAMB   TO   BARTON 

These  were  the  words  which  ell-ell-deed  me ;  and  then  the  bar 
was  lifted  up,  and  I  seated  myself  among  the  Doctors. 

Little  girls,  you  know  it  might  be  proper  for  me  now  to  wear 
a  large  wig,  and  to  be  called  Dr.  Southey,  and  to  become  very 
severe,  and  leave  off  being  a  comical  papa.  And  if  you  find 
that  ell-ell-deeing  has  made  this  difference  in  me,  you  will 
not  be  surprised.  However,  I  shall  not  come  down  in  a  wig ; 
neither  shall  I  wear  my  robes  at  home.  God  bless  you  all ! 
Your  affectionate  father, 

R.  SOUTHEY. 

XLV 

Charles  Lamb  to  Bernard  Barton 

January  9,  1823. 

1  Throw  yourself  on  the  world  without  any  rational  plan  of 
support  beyond  what  the  chance  employ  of  booksellers  would 
afford  you  !  !  ! ' 

Throw  yourself  rather,  my  dear  sir,  from  the  steep  Tarpeian 
rock,  slap-dash  headlong  upon  iron  spikes.  If  you  had  but 
five  consolatory  minutes  between  the  desk  and  the  bed,  make 
much  of  them,  and  live  a  century  in  them,  rather  than  turn 
slave  to  the  booksellers ;  they  are  Turks  and  Tartars  when 
they  have  poor  authors  at  their  beck.  Hitherto  you  have 
been  at  arm's  length  from  them ;  come  not  within  their  grasp. 
I  have  known  many  authors  want  for  bread,  some  repining, 
others  envying  the  blessed  security  of  a  counting-house,  all 
agreeing  they  had  rather  have  been  tailors,  weavers  —  what 
not  ?  —  rather  than  the  things  they  were.  I  have  known  some 
starved,  some  to  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  literally  dying  in  a 
workhouse.  You  know  not  what  a  rapacious,  dishonest  set 
these  booksellers  are.  Ask  even  Southey,  who  —  a  single  case 
almost  —  has  made  a  fortune  by  book-drudgery,  what  he  has 


LAMB   TO   BARTON  71 

found  them.  O,  you  know  not  —  may  you  never  know  !  — 
the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  authorship.  'T  is  a  pretty  appen- 
dage to  a  situation  like  yours  or  mine ;  but  a  slavery  worse 
than  all  slavery  to  be  a  bookseller's  dependent,  to  drudge  your 
brains  for  pots  of  ale  and  breasts  of  mutton,  to  change  your 
free  thoughts  and  voluntary  numbers  for  ungracious  task-work. 
Those  fellows  hate  us.  The  reason  I  take  to  be  that,  contrary 
to  other  trades,  in  which  the  master  gets  all  the  credit  —  a  jew- 
eler or  silversmith  for  instance  —  and  the  journeyman,  who 
really  does  the  fine  work,  is  in  the  background,  in  our  work 
the  world  gives  all  the  credit  to  us,  whom  they  consider  as  their 
journeymen,  and  therefore  do  they  hate  us,  and  cheat  us,  and 
oppress  us,  and  would  wring  the  blood  of  us  out,  to  put  another 
sixpence  in  their  mechanic  pouches  !  I  contend  that  a  book- 
seller has  a  relative  honesty  towards  authors,  not  like  his  honesty 
to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Keep  to  your  bank,  and  the  bank  will  keep  you.  Trust  not 
to  the  public  \  you  may  hang,  starve,  drown  yourself,  for  any- 
thing that  worthy  personage  cares.  I  bless  every  star  that 
Providence,  not  seeing  good  to  make  me  independent,  has 
seen  it  next  good  to  settle  me  upon  the  stable  foundation  of 
Leadenhall.  Sit  down,  good  B.  B.,  in  the  banking-office ; 
what !  is  there  not  from  six  to  eleven  P.M.  six  days  in  the 
week,  and  is  there  not  all  Sunday?  Fie,  what  a  superfluity  of 
man's  time,  if  you  could  think  so  !  Enough  for  relaxation, 
mirth,  converse,  poetry,  good  thoughts,  quiet  thoughts.  O  the 
corroding,  torturing,  tormenting  thoughts  that  disturb  the 
brain  of  the  unlucky  wight  who  must  draw  upon  it  for  daily 
sustenance  !  Henceforth  I  retract  all  my  fond  complaints  of 
mercantile  employment ;  look  upon  them  as  lovers'  quarrels. 
I  was  but  half  in  earnest.  Welcome,  dead  timber  of  a  desk, 
that  makes  me  live.  A  little  grumbling  is  a  wholesome  med- 
icine for  the  spleen,  but  in  my  inner  heart  I  do  approve  and 


72  LAMB   TO   PATMORE 

embrace  this  our  close  but  unharassing  way  of  life.  I  am  quite 
serious.  If  you  can  send  me  Fox,  I  will  not  keep  it  six  weeks, 
and  will  return  it,  with  warm  thanks  to  yourself  and  friend, 
without  blot  or  dog's-ear.  You  will  oblige  me  by  this  kindness. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB. 

XLVI 
Charles  Lamb  to  Mr.  Patmore 

DEAR  P   •  ^rs*  Leishman's,  Chase,  Enfield,  Sept.,  1827. 

Excuse  my  anxiety,  but  how  is  Dash  ?  I  should  have  asked 
if  Mrs.  Patmore  kept  her  rules,  and  was  improving ;  but  Dash 
came  uppermost.  The  order  of  our  thoughts  should  be  the 
order  of  our  writing.  Goes  he  muzzled,  or  aperto  ore  ?  Are 
his  intellects  sound,  or  does  he  wander  a  little  in  his  conver- 
sation ?  You  cannot  be  too  careful  to  watch  the  first  symptoms 
of  incoherence.  The  first  illogical  snarl  he  makes,  to  St.  Luke's 
with  him.  All  the  dogs  here  are  going  mad,  if  you  believe  the 
overseers  ;  but  I  protest  they  seem  to  me  very  rational  and  col- 
lected. But  nothing  is  so  deceitful  as  mad  people,  to  those 
who  are  not  used  to  them.  Try  him  with  hot  water  :  if  he 
won't  lick  it  up  it  is  a  sign  —  he  does  not  like  it.  Does  his 
tail  wag  horizontally  or  perpendicularly?  That  has  decided 
the  fate  of  many  dogs  in  Enfield.  Is  his  general  deportment 
cheerful?  I  mean  when  he  is  pleased  —  for  otherwise  there 
is  no  judging.  You  can't  be  too  careful.  Has  he  bit  any 
of  the  children  yet?  If  he  has,  have  them  shot,  and  keep 
him  for  curiosity,  to  see  if  it  was  the  hydrophobia.  They 
say  all  our  army  in  India  had  it  at  one  time ;  but  that  was  in 
Hyder  Ally's  time.  Do  you  get  paunch  for  him?  Take  care 
the  sheep  was  sane.  You  might  pull  out  his  teeth  —  if  he 
would  let  you  —  and  then  you  need  not  mind  if  he  were  as  mad 


LAMB   TO    PATMORE  73 

as  a  Bedlamite.  It  would  be  rather  fun  to  see  his  odd  ways ; 
it  might  amuse  Mrs.  P.  and  the  children.  They  'd  have  more 
sense  than  he.  He  'd  be  like  a  fool  kept  in  a  family,  to  keep 
the  household  in  good  humor  with  their  own  understanding. 
You  might  teach  him  the  mad  dance,  set  to  the  mad  howl ; l 
Madge  Owlet  would  be  nothing  to  him.  <  My  !  how  he  capers  ! ' 
.  .  .  What  I  scratch  out  is  a  German  quotation  from  Lessing, 
on  the  bite  of  rabid  animals ;  but  I  remember  you  don't  read 
German.  But  Mrs.  P.  may,  so  I  wish  I  had  let  it  stand.  The 
meaning  in  English  is  :  *  Avoid  to  approach  an  animal  sus- 
pected of  madness,  as  you  would  avoid  fire  or  a  precipice,' 
which  I  think  is  a  sensible  observation.  The  Germans  are 
certainly  profounder  than  we.  If  the  slightest  suspicion  arises 
in  your  breast  that  all  is  not  right  with  him,  muzzle  him  and 
lead  him  in  a  string  (common  packthread  will  do  —  he  don't 
care  for  twist)  to  Mr.  Hood's,  his  quondam  master,  and  he  '11 
take  him  in  at  any  time.  You  may  mention  your  suspicion  or 
not,  as  you  like,  or  as  you  think  it  may  wound  or  not  Mr  H.'s 
feelings.  Hood,  I  know,  will  wink  at  a  few  follies  in  Dash,  in 
consideration  of  his  former  sense.  Besides,  Hood  is  deaf,  and, 
if  you  hinted  anything,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  hear  you. 
Besides,  you  will  have  discharged  your  conscience,  and  laid 
the  child  at  the  right  door,  as  they  say. 

We  are  dawdling  our  time  away  very  idly  and  pleasantly  at  a 
Mrs.  Leishman's,  Chase,  Enfield,  where,  if  you  come  a-hunting, 
we  can  give  you  cold  meat  and  a  tankard.  Her  husband  is  a 
tailor ;  but  that,  you  know,  does  not  make  her  one.  I  knew  a 
jailer  —  which  rimes  —  but  his  wife  was  a  fine  lady. 

Let  us  hear  from  you  respecting  Mrs.  P.'s  regimen.     I  send 

my  love  in  a  —  to  Dash. 

C.  LAMB. 

1  Supposed  to  be  said  by  one  of  the  children.  —  EDS. 


74  HALLAM    TO   EMILY   TENNYSON 

XLVII 
Arthur  Hallam  to  Emily  Tennyson 

Nonnenwerth,  July  16,  1832. 

I  expect,  as  far  as  I  can  calculate  —  but  a  traveler's  calcu- 
lations are  always  liable  to  be  deranged  by  unforeseen  changes 
—  to  be  in  England  by  the  end  of  this  month,  and  then  I  shall 
go  straight  to  Somersby.  I  had  better  tell  you  something  of 
what  Alfred  and  I  have  been  doing.  My  last  letter,  I  think,  was 
from  Rotterdam. 

We  resumed  our  steamboat  last  Wednesday  morning,  and 
came  on  slowly  up  the  Rhine,  the  banks  of  which  are  more 
uniformly  ugly  and  flat  as  far  as  Cologne  than  any  country  I 
ever  saw  of  so  great  an  extent.  Really,  until  yesterday,  we  had 
seen  nothing  in  the  way  of  scenery  that  deserved  going  a  mile 
to  see.  Cologne  is  the  paradise  of  painted  glass  ;  the  splendor 
of  the  windows  in  the  churches  would  have  greatly  delighted 
you.  The  Cathedral  is  unfinished,  and  if  completed  on  the 
original  plan,  would  be  the  most  stupendous  and  magnificent 
in  the  world.  The  part  completed  is  very  beautiful  Gothic. 
Alfred  was  in  great  raptures,  only  complaining  he  had  so  little 
time  to  study  the  place.  There  is  a  gallery  of  pictures  quite 
after  my  own  heart,  rich,  glorious  old  German  pictures,  which 
Alfred  accuses  me  of  preferring  to  Titian  and  RafTaelle.  In  the 
Cathedral  we  saw  the  tomb  and  relics  of  the  three  kings,  Gas- 
par,  Melchior,  and  Balthazar,  the  patrons  of  Cologne,  and  very 
miraculous  persons  in  their  day,  according  to  sundry  legends. 
The  tomb  is  nearly  all  of  pure  massy  gold,  studded  with  rich 
precious  stones. 

From  Cologne  we  came  on  to  Bonn,  which  really  bears  a 
sort  of  family  likeness  to  Cambridge.  Here  the  Rhine  begins 
to  be  beautiful ;  and  yesterday  we  took  a  luxurious  climb  up 
the  Drachenfels,  looked  around  at  the  mild  vine-spread  hillock, 


LAMB   TO   MOXON  75 

and  '  river-sundered  champaign  clothed  with  corn/ l  ate  cherries 
under  the  old  castle-wall  at  the  top  of  the  crag,  then  descended 
to  a  village  below,  and  were  carried  over  in  a  boat  to  the  place 
from  which  I  am  writing.  And  what  is  that?  Ten  years  ago 
it  was  a  large  convent  of  Benedictine  nuns ;  now  it  is  a  large 
and  comfortable  hotel,  still  retaining  the  form  of  the  convent, 
the  cloisters,  cell-like  rooms,  etc.  It  stands  on  an  island  in  the 
middle  of  the  river ;  you  will  understand  the  size  of  the  isle 
when  I  tell  you  it  is  rather  larger,  according  to  Alfred,  than 
that  of  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  the  stream  is  rather  more 
rapid  than  our  old  acquaintance  that  ran  down  to  Camelot. 
The  prospect  from  the  window  and  gardens  is  most  beautiful, 
the  mountains,  as  they  are  called  —  Drachenfels  being  one,  on 
one  bank  of  the  river,  and  Rolandseck  towering  up  to  the 
other  —  with  the  hills  about  Bingen  glooming  in  the  distance. 

XLVIII 
Charles  Lamb  to  Mr.  Moxon 

July  24,  1833. 

Give  Emma  no  more  watches ;  one  has  turned  her  head.  She 
is  arrogant  and  insulting.  She  said  something  very  unpleasant 
to  our  old  clock  in  the  passage,  as  if  he  did  not  keep  time,  and 
yet  he  had  made  her  no  appointment.  She  takes  it  out  every 
instant  to  look  at  the  moment-hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the 
fields,  because  there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  '  Pray,  sir,  can  you 
tell  us  what's  o'clock?'  —  and  she  answers  them  punctually. 
She  loses  all  her  time  looking  to  see  '  what  the  time  is.'  I  over- 
heard her  whispering,  'Just  so  many  hours,  minutes,  etc.,  to 
Tuesday ;  I  think  St.  George's  goes  too  slow  ! '  This  little 
present  of  Time  !  —  why,  '  t  is  Eternity  to  her  !  What  can 
make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread  watch?  She  has  spoiled 

Tennyson,  Oenone  1 12.  —  EDS. 


76  HOOD   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER 

some  of  the  movements.  Between  ourselves,  she  has  kissed 
away  '  half -past  twelve,'  which  I  suppose  to  be  the  canonical 
hour  in  Hanover  Square. 

Well,  if  *  love  me,  love  my  watch '  answers,  she  will  keep 
time  to  you.  *  It  goes  right  by  the  Horse  Guards.' 

Dearest  M. :  Never  mind  opposite1  nonsense.  She  does  not 
love  you  for  the  watch,  but  the  watch  for  you.  I  will  be  at  the 
wedding,  and  keep  the  3oth  July  as  long  as  my  poor  months 

last  me,  as  a  festival  gloriously. 

Yours  ever, 

ELIA. 

We  have  not  heard  from  Cambridge ;  I  will  write  the  moment 
we  do. 

Edmonton,  24th  July,  twenty  minutes  past  three  by  Emma's 
watch. 

XLIX 
Thomas  Hood  to  his  Daughter 

MY  DEAR  FANNY  :  Halle»  October  23>  l837- 

I  hope  you  are  as  good  still  as  when  I  went  away  —  a  com- 
fort to  your  good  mother  and  a  kind  playfellow  to  your  little 
brother.  Mind  you  tell  him  my  horse  eats  bread  out  of  my 
hand,  and  walks  up  'to  the  officers  who  are  eating,  and  pokes 
his  nose  into  the  women's  baskets.  I  wish  I  could  give  you 
both  a  ride.  I  hope  you  liked  your  paints  ;  pray  keep  them  out 
of  Tom's  way,  as  they  are  poisonous.  I  shall  have  rare  stories 
to  tell  you  when  I  come  home ;  but  mind,  you  must  be  good 
till  then,  or  I  shall  be  as  mute  as  a  stock-fish.  Your  mama 
will  show  you  on  the  map  where  I  was  when  I  wrote  this ;  and 
when  she  writes  will  let  you  put  in  a  word.  You  would  have 
laughed  to  have  seen  your  friend  Wildegans  running  after  the 
l  On  opposite  page.  —  EDS. 


FITZGERALD   TO    FREDERIC   TENNYSON        77 

sausage-boy  to  buy  a  wurst^  There  was  hardly  an  officer 
without  one  in  his  hand  smoking  hot.  The  men  piled  their 
guns  on  the  grass,  and  sat  by  the  side  of  the  road,  all  munch- 
ing at  once  like  ogres.  I  had  a  pocket  full  of  bread  and  butter, 
which  soon  went  into  my  *  cavities,'  as  Mrs.  Dilke  calls  them. 
I  only  hope  I  shall  not  get  so  hungry  as  to  eat  my  horse. 
I  know  I  need  not  say,  keep  school  and  mind  your  book,  as 
you  love  to  learn.  You  can  have  Minna  sometimes,  her 
papa  says. 

Now  God  bless  you,  my  dear  little  girl,  my  pet,  and  think  of 

Your  loving  father, 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson 

Geldestone  Hall,  Beccles,  (10  April,  1839). 
MY  DEAR  TENNYSON  : 

I  see  is  the  last  Atlas  a  notice  of  the  first  concert  of  the 
Societa  Armonica.  There  were  you  to  be  found  of  course 
seated  in  black  velvet  waistcoat  —  for  I  hope  you  remember 
these  are  dress  concerts  —  on  one  of  the  benches,  grumbling  at 
most  of  the  music.  You  had  a  long  symphony  of  Beethoven's 
in  B  flat ;  I  forget  how  it  goes,  but  doubtless  there  was  much 
good  in  it.  The  overture  to  Egmont  is  also  a  fine  thing.  The 
Atlas,  which  is  the  best  weekly  critic  of  music  and  all  other 
things  that  I  know  of,  gives  great  /d)8os  to  the  Societa  Armo- 
nica :  especially  this  season,  as  the  directors  seem  determined 
to  replace  Donizetti  and  Mercadante  and  Mozart  and  Rossini 
in  the  vocal  department  —  a  good  change  doubtless.  I  hear 
no  music  now,  except  that  for  the  last  week  I  have  been  stay- 
ing with  Spring  Rice's  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Frere,2  one  of  the 

1  Sausage.  —  EDS. 

2  Widow  of  Sergeant  Frere,  Master  of  Downing  College,  Cambridge. 


78        FITZGERALD   TO   FREDERIC  TENNYSON 

finest  judges  of  music  I  know.  She  was  a  fine  singer;  but 
her  voice  fails  now.  We  used  to  look  over  the  score  of  Don 
Giovanni  together,  and  many  a  mystery  and  mastery  of  com- 
position did  she  show  me  in  it.  Now  then  there  is  enough  of 
music. 

I  wish  you  would  write  me  a  letter,  which  you  can  do  now 
and  then  if  you  will  take  it  into  your  head,  and  let  me  know 
how  you  and  my  dear  old  Morton  are,  and  whether  you  dine 
and  smoke  together  as  heretofore.  If  you  won't  write,  tell 
him  to  do  so ;  or  make  up  a  letter  between  you.  What  new 
pictures  are  there  to  be  seen?  Have  you  settled  yet  whether 
spirit  can  exist  separately  from  matter?  Are  you  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  Murphy's  Almanac  this  year  ?  Have  you  learned 
any  more  astronomy? 

I  live  on  in  a  very  seedy  way,  reading  occasionally  in  books 
which  every  one  else  has  gone  through  at  school;  and  what  I 
do  read  is  just  in  the  same  way  as  ladies  work  —  to  pass  the 
time  away  —  for  little  remains  in  my  head.  I  dare  say  you 
think  it  very  absurd  that  an  idle  man  like  me  should  poke 
about  here  in  the  country,  when  I  might  be  in  London  seeing 
my  friends  ;  but  such  is  the  humor  of  the  beast.  But  it  is  not 
always  to  be  the  case  :  I  shall  see  your  good  physiognomy 
one  of  these  days,  and  smoke  one  of  your  cigars,  and  listen  to 
Morton  saying  fine  and  wild  things,  '  startling  the  dull  ear  of 
night '  with  paradoxes  that  perhaps  are  truisms  in  the  world 
where  spirits  exist  independent  of  matter.  You  two  men  have 
made  great  commotion  in  my  mind,  and  left  your  marks  upon 
it,  I  can  tell  you,  more  than  most  of  the  books  I  read.  What 
is  Alfred  about,  and  where  is  he  ?  Present  my  homage  to  him. 
Don't  you  rather  rejoice  in  the  pickle  the  King  of  the  French 
finds  himself  in?  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  have  a  sneaking 
dislike  of  the  old  knave.  How  he  must  pine  to  summon  up 
Talleyrand's  ghost,  and  what  a  ghost  it  must  be,  wherever  it  is  ! 


FITZGERALD   TO   FREDERIC   TENNYSON        79 

LI 
Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson 

MY  DEAR  FREDERIC:  Naseby»  (Oct>  l840- 

I  am  surprised  you  think  my  scanty  letters  are  worth  encour- 
aging, especially  with  such  long  and  excellent  answers  as  that 
I  have  just  got  from  you.  It  has  found  its  way  down  here ; 
and  oddly  enough  does  your  Italian  scenery,  painted,  I  believe, 
very  faithfully  upon  my  inner  eye,  contrast  with  the  British 
barrenness  of  the  Field  of  Naseby.  Yet  here  was  fought  a 
battle  of  some  interest  to  Englishmen ;  and  I  am  persuading 
farmers  to  weed  well  the  corn  that  grows  over  those  who  died 
there.  No,  no ;  in  spite  of  your  Vesuviuses  and  sunshine,  I 
love  my  poor,  dear,  brave,  barren,  ugly  country.  Talk  of  your 
Italians  !  Why,  they  are  extinguished  by  the  Austrians  because 
they  don't  blaze  enough  of  themselves  to  burn  the  extinguisher. 
Only  peopkLJi^iojleserve  despotism  are  forced  tomfler  it. 

We  have  at  last  good  weather  ;  and  the  harvest  is  just  draw- 
ing to  a  close  in  this  place.  It  is  a  bright  brisk  morning,  and 
the  loaded  wagons  are  rolling  cheerfully  past  my  window.  But 
since  I  wrote  what  is  above  a  whole  day  has  passed :  I  have 
eaten  a  bread  dinner ;  taken  a  lonely  walk ;  made  a  sketch  of 
Naseby  —  not  the  least  like  yours  of  Castellamare  ;  played  for 
an  hour  on  an  old  tub  of  a  piano  ;  and  went  out  in  my  dressing- 
gown  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  a  tenant  hard  by.  That  tenant 
—  whose  name  is  Love  by  the  bye  —  was  out  with  his  folks 
in  the  stack-yard  getting  in  all  the  corn  they  can,  as  the  night 
looks  rainy.  So,  disappointed  of  my  projected  '  talk  about  runts 
and  turnips,'  I  am  come  back  —  with  a  good  deal  of  animal 
spirits  at  my  tongue's  and  fingers'  ends.  If  I  were  transported 
now  into  your  room  at  Castellamare,  I  would  wag  my  tongue 
far  beyond  midnight  with  you.  These  fits  of  exultation  are 
not  very  common  with  me,  as  —  after  leaving  off  beef  —  my 


80        FITZGERALD   TO    FREDERIC   TENNYSON 

life  has  become  of  an  even  gray-paper  character,  needing  no 
great  excitement,  and  as  pleased  with  Naseby  as  Naples.  .  .  . 

I  am  reading  SchlegePs  lectures  on  the  history  of  literature, 
a  nice,  just  book ;  as  also  the  comedies  of  Congreve,  Vanbrugh, 
and  Farquhar  —  the  latter  very  delightful ;  as  also  D'Aubigne's 
History  of  the  Reformation,  a  good  book.  When  I  am  tired 
of  one  I  take  up  the  other ;  when  tired  of  all,  I  take  up  my 
pipe,  or  sit  down  and  recollect  some  of  Fidelio  on  the  piano- 
forte. Ah,  Master  Tennyson,  we  in  England  have  our  pleasures, 
too  !  As  to  Alfred,  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him  since  May, 
except  that  some  one  saw  him  going  to  a  packet,  which  he 
believed  was  going  to  Rotterdam.  .  .  . 

When  shall  you  and  I  go  to  an  opera  again,  or  hear  one  of 
Beethoven's  symphonies  together?  You  are  lost  to  England, 
I  calculate ;  and  I  am  given  over  to  turnips  and  inanity.  So 
runs  the  world  away.  Well,  if  I  never  see  you  again,  I  am  very, 
very  glad  I  have  seen  you,  and  got  the  idea  of  a  noble  fellow 
all  ways  into  my  head.  Does  this  seem  like  humbug  to  you? 
But  it  is  not.  And  that  fine  fellow  Morton,  too  !  Pray  write 
when  you  can  to  me ;  and  when  my  stars  shine  so  happily 
about  my  head  as  they  do  at  this  minute,  when  my  blood  feels 
like  champagne,  I  will  answer  you.  .  .  . 

When  you  go  to  Florence,  get  to  see  a  fresco  portrait  of 
Dante  by  Giotto,  newly  discovered  in  some  chapel  there. 
Edgeworth  saw  it,  and  has  brought  home  a  print,  which  is,  he 
says,  a  tolerable  copy.  It  is  a  most  awful  head  :  Dante,  when 
about  twenty-five  years  old.  The  likeness  to  the  common  por- 
traits of  him  when  old  is  quite  evident.  All  his  great  poem 
seems  in  it,  like  the  flower  in  the  bud.  I  read  the  last  cantos 
of  the  Paradiso  over  and  over  again.  I  forget  if  you  like  him ; 
but,  if  I  understand  you  at  all,  you  must.  Farewell ! 

P.S.  Just  heard  from  Edgeworth  that  Alfred  is  in  London 
'  busy  preparing  for  the  press  '  !  !  ! 


LONGFELLOW   TO   HIS   FATHER  8 1 

LII 
Henry  W.  Longfellow  to  his  Father 

Marienberg,  June  21,  1842. 

I  wrote  you  about  three  weeks  ago  from  Paris,  informing 
you  of  my  safe  arrival  there  and  of  my  plans  for  reaching 
Germany. 

I  had  a  very  pleasant  journey  through  Belgium,  visiting 
Bruges,  Ghent,  Antwerp,  and  Brussels.  The  Rhine  looks 
very  much  as  in  former  days.  Half  a  dozen  steamers  ply 
up  and  down  its  yellow  waters,  and  cockney  tourists  infest  its 
towns.  Boppard  is  a  very  ancient  place  —  an  old  Roman 
town ;  parts  of  the  Roman  walls  are  still  standing.  The 
church  whose  roof  and  spires  you  see  above  is  as  old  as  the 
thirteenth  century.  The  spires  are  connected  by  a  covered 
bridge,  in  which  are  two  rooms  —  a  bedroom  and  a  kitchen. 
The  watchman  formerly  lived  up  there. 

Marienberg  is  just  above  the  town.  It  is  a  fine  old  build- 
ing —  once  a  convent  of  noble  nuns.  The  cloisters  still 
remain,  with  the  tombstones  of  the  nuns  in  the  wall.  Behind 
the  house  is  a  large  garden  and  park,  from  which  walks  run 
up  the  several  valleys  and  hills  in  the  neighborhood.  It  is  a 
very  beautiful  establishment.  I  have  a  window  towards  the 
garden,  as  you  see  by  the  mark. 

At  present  there  are  about  sixty  persons  here,  going  through 
what  is  called  the  water-cure.  Among  them  are  some  very 
agreeable  persons.  The  process  of  cure  varies  of  course 
somewhat  with  the  nature  of  the  disease,  but  in  general  it 
is  this :  About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  servant  comes 
in  and  wraps  you  in  a  wet  sheet,  then  in  a  blanket,  then 
covers  you  up  in  a  mass  of  bedquilts.  There  you  lie  for  an 
hour  or  more,  until  you  perspire  freely.  You  are  then  wheeled 
in  an  armchair  to  the  bathing-room,  where  you  plunge  into 


82  LONGFELLOW   TO   HIS    FATHER 

a  large  bath  of  running  water,  and  remain  a  couple  of  minutes, 
splashing  and  rubbing.  You  then  dress,  and  walk  an  hour  in 
the  garden,  drinking  at  intervals  at  the  fountains,  to  the 
amount  of  four  or  five  glasses.  Next  follows  breakfast,  which 
consists  of  bread,  butter,  and  milk,  and  sometimes  straw- 
berries. After  breakfast,  another  walk  —  or  a  letter,  as  to-day. 

At  eleven  o'clock  a  douche,  which  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  standing  under  a  spout.  The  douches  vary  from  eight- 
een to  thirty-five  feet  in  height,  and  are  perhaps  the  pleas- 
antest  baths  —  the  force  of  the  water  making  you  warm  in 
an  instant.  The  water  from  the  hills  is  brought  into  the 
bathing-rooms  by  pipes,  under  which  you  place  yourself  for 
three  or  four  minutes.  You  then  take  another  walk  for  an 
hour ;  then  a  fliessendes  Sitzbad,  or  flowing  bath,  in  which 
you  sit  for  half  an  hour,  the  water  flowing  through  continu- 
ally. Then  you  walk  till  one  o'clock.  At  one,  dinner  — 
very  frugal,  without  wine  or  spice  of  any  kind.  After  dinner, 
sit  or  walk  or  play  billiards  till  five.  At  five,  another  Sitzbad, 
as  at  twelve;  and  then  a  long  walk  up  the  hills  or  to  the 
neighboring  villages  till  supper,  which  is  on  the  table  from 
half -past  seven  to  nine,  and  is  the  same  as  the  breakfast; 
at  ten,  to  bed. 

Such  is  a  day  in  Marienberg,  where  one  day  is  like  another 
—  saving  Sunday,  when  we  rest  from  our  bathing.  You  will 
think  the  treatment  quite  barbarous,  but  it  is  not  half  so  much 
so  as  it  seems.  To  me,  indeed,  it  is  extremely  pleasant.  I 
delight  in  the  cold  baths,  and  have  great  faith  in  their  efficacy. 
I  have  been  here  now  a  fortnight,  and  enjoy  myself  much. 
I  like  particularly  the  long  walks  we  take  at  sunset.  From 
morning  till  night  we  are  out  in  the  open  air.  This  part  of 
the  treatment,  and  the  diet,  I  think  you  will  approve ;  and 
there  are  here  some  striking  proofs  of  the  benefits  of  the 
water-cure. 


HOOD   TO    DICKENS  83 

I  hope  that  ere  long  we  shall  have  some  such  establishments 
in  America.  The  White  Hills  would  be  a  capital  place  — 
having  a  great  abundance  of  cold  water,  and  plenty  of  high 
hills  to  climb. 

LIII 
Thomas  Hood  to  Charles  Dickens 

MY  DEAR  DICKENS:  [Nov-»  l842?] 

Only  thinking  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again,  with 
Mrs.  Dickens,  on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  I  never  remembered 
till  I  got  home  to  my  wife,  who  is  also  my  flapper  (not  a  young 
wild  duck,  but  a  remembrancer  of  Laputa),  that  I  have  been 
booked  to  shoot  some  rabbits  —  if  I  can  —  at  Wantage,  in 
Berks  ;  a  reverend  friend,  called  *  Peter  Priggins,' x  will  be  wait- 
ing for  me,  by  appointment,  at  his  railway-station  on  Tuesday. 
But  I  must  and  can  only  be  three  or  four  days  absent ;  after 
which,  the  sooner  we  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  the  better 
for  us.  Mrs.  Hood  thinks  there  ought  to  be  a  ladies'  dinner 
to  Mrs.  Dickens.  I  think  she  wants  to  go  to  Greenwich,  see- 
ing how  much  good  it  has  done  me,  for  I  went  really  ill,  and 
came  home  well,  so  that  occasionally  the  diet  of  Gargantua 
seems  to  suit  me  better  than  that  of  Panta-gruel.  Well,  adieu 
for  the  present.  Live,  fatten,  prosper,  write,  and  draw  the 
mopuses  wholesale  through  Chapman  and  Haul? 

Yours  ever  truly, 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

1  Rev.  Joseph  T.  J.  Hewlett  (1800- 1847),  author  of  Peter  Priggins,  the  College 
Scout  (1841),  and  other  books.  —  EDS. 

2  A  firm  of  London  publishers.  —  EDS. 


84  HOOD    TO    MAY   ELLIOT 

LIV 
Thomas  Hood  to  May  Elliot 

MY   DEAR   MAY  :  Monday,  April,  1844. 

I  promised  you  a  letter,  and  here  it  is.  I  was  sure  to  remem- 
ber it,  for  you  are  as  hard  to  forget  as  you  are  soft  to  roll  down 
a  hill  with.  What  fun  it  was  !  —  only  so  prickly  I  thought  I  had  a 
porcupine  in  one  pocket,  and  a  hedgehog  in  the  other.  The 
next  time  before  we  kiss  the  earth  we  will  have  its  face  well 
shaved.  Did  you  ever  go  to  Greenwich  Fair?  I  should  like 
to  go  there  with  you,  for  I  get  no  rolling  at  St.  John's  Wood. 
Tom  and  Fanny  only  like  roll  and  butter,  and  as  for  Mrs. 
Hood,  she  is  for  rolling  in  money. 

Tell  Dunnie  that  Tom  has  set  his  trap  in  the  balcony,  and 
has  caught  a  cold,  and  tell  Jeanie  that  Fanny  has  set  her  foot 
in  the  garden,  but  it  has  not  come  up  yet.  Oh,  how  I  wish 
it  was  the  season  when  '  March  winds  and  April  showers  bring 
forth  Mayflowers  ! '  for  then  of  course  you  would  give  me 
another  pretty  little  nosegay.  Besides  it  is  frosty  and  foggy 
weather,  which  I  do  not  like.  The  other  night,  when  I  came 
from  Stratford,  the  cold  shriveled  me  up  so  that  when  I  got 
home  I  thought  I  was  my  own  child  ! 

However,  I  hope  we  shall  all  have  a  merry  Christmas; 
I  mean  to  come  in  my  ticklesome  waistcoat,  and  to  laugh  till  I 
grow  fat,  or  at  least  streaky.  Fanny  is  to  be  allowed  a  glass  of 
wine,  Tom's  mouth  is  to  have  a  hole  holiday,  and  Mrs.  Hood  is 
to  sit  up  to  supper.  There  will  be  doings  !  And  then  such  good 
things  to  eat ;  but,  pray,  pray,  pray,  mind  they  don't  boil  the 
baby  by  mistake  for  the  plump  pudding,  instead  of  a  plum  one. 

Give  my  love  to  everybody,  from  yourself  down  to  Willy, 
with  which  and  a  kiss  I  remain,  up  hill  and  down  dale, 

Your  affectionate  lover, 

THOMAS  Hoop. 


LOWELL  TO    MISS   WHITE  8$ 

LV 
James  R.  Lowell  to  Miss  L.  L.  White 1 

MY  DEAR  Lois  :  New  York>  May  24>  l845- 

Yesterday  having  been  a  day  of  extraordinary  'excitement 
and  adventure  in  the  wedded  life  of  Maria  and  myself,  seems 
to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of  giving  you  Scripture  measure 
in  the  matter  of  the  letter  I  promised  to  write  you  from  Phila- 
delphia. Whether  from  Philadelphia  or  New  York,  however, 
matters  very  little,  since  my  heart  was  as  near  you  in  one 
place  as  in  the  other. 

I  shall  begin  my  account  of  yesterday's  proceedings  with  a 
sketch  of  an  interesting  scene  which  took  place  in  our  cham- 
ber yesterday  morning.  It  had  been  arranged  beforehand 
that  we  should  make  an  excursion  to  Greenwood  Cemetery 

in  the  forenoon,  and  visit  Mrs.  and  Miss  P ,  who  live  in 

Brooklyn  —  near  the  cemetery  —  on  our  return.  Now,  you 
must  know  that  I  am  becoming  more  and  more  inclined  to 
Grahamism  every  day,  and  on  the  particular  morning  of  yes- 
terday was  indulging  Maria  with  my  views  on  that  subject, 
when  the  following  dialogue  took  place  : 

I.    *  I  think  I  shall  eat  no  meat  after  our  return  home/ 

M.    '  Why  not  begin  to-day?  ' 

I.    (  With  heroic  excitement)  '  I  will ! ' 

M.  '  I  'm  sure  we  've  had  nothing  in  the  way  of  meat  here 
that  has  been  very  tempting.' 

I.  *  True,  but  we  shall  doubtless  have  a  fine  dinner  at  the 
P.'s.  And,  on  second  thoughts,  I  believe  I  shall  begin  my 
reform  to-morrow.'  (Exeunt.  End  of  ist  Act.) 

The  next  scene  of  this  exciting  drama  is  laid  in  Brooklyn, 
where  we  sat  waiting  in  a  curious  affair  called  an  omnibus, 
and  regarded  as  such  with  intense  pride  by  the  driver.  My 

1  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


86  LOWELL  TO    MISS   WHITE 

opinion  in  regard  to  this  machine  is  not  fully  made  up.  At 
first  I  was  inclined  to  regard  it  as  the  first  crude  idea  of  a 
vehicle  which  entered  the  creative  mind ;  but  afterwards  I 
was  more  inclined  to  believe  it  to  have  [been]  an  instrument 
of  torture  devised  by  the  Inquisition,  and  given  by  a  Jesuit, 
in  the  disguise  of  a  very  benevolent  old  gentleman,  to  the 
proprietor  of  the  line,  for  the  purpose  of  punishing  such 
heretics  as  could  not  otherwise  be  got  into  the  power  of  the 
Holy  Office.  It  was  dragged  by  two  creatures  who  might  have 
been  put  into  any  menagerie  and  safely  exhibited  as  sea- 
horses, for  all  the  resemblance  they  bore  to  the  original  land- 
animal  of  the  same  name. 

While  sitting  waiting  for  these  creatures  to  recover  sufficient 
strength  for  a  start,  an  Irishwoman,  who  had  regarded  us 
attentively  for  some  time,  exclaimed,  '  Faix  !  it 's  a  long  time 
it  is  sence  I  've  seen  anny  beauty,  but  I  see  a  dale  of  it  now 
anny  way  ! '  Maria  has  a  private  theory  that  the  woman  was 
looking  directly  at  her  when  she  gave  voice  to  this  inspiration, 
but  I  cannot  but  think  that  there  was  another  individual  of 
a  different  sex  —  but  I  will  say  no  more.  In  either  case  the 
woman  showed  a  great  deal  of  discernment,  considering  her 
limited  opportunities. 

Now  imagine  us  to  have  perambulated  the  cemetery  for 
the  space  of  three  hours,  with  no  food  but  what  is  techni- 
cally called  food  for  reflection,  suggested  by  the  monstrous 
inventions  which  surviving  relatives  heap  over  the  —  properly 
—  mortified  remains  of  the  departed.  It  was  now  half-past 
four  o'clock,  and  we  had  eaten  nothing  since  eight  in  the 
morning.  This  was  carrying  the  principles  of  Grahamism  to 
a  supernatural  extent.  Still  I  delighted  myself  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  this  involuntary  asceticism  would  cease  on  our  arrival 
at  the  hospitable  mansion  of  the  P.'s.  On  arriving  there,  we 
found  that  their  dinner-hour  had  been  recently  changed  from 


LOWELL   TO    MISS    WHITE  87 

five  o'clock  to  two  !  An  entirely  intellectual  banquet  had 
been  prepared  for  us,  the  bill  of  fare  of  which  I  give  below : 

ist  Course 

Mrs.  P.  and  the  Miss  P.  who  was  at  Watertown,  who  met 
us  in  the  entry  and  accompanied  us  to  the  drawing-room. 

2d  Course 
A  tall  Miss  P.,  who  was  engaged  to  somebody  at  sea. 

3d  Course 

A  short  Miss  P.,  who  was  engaged  to  nobody,  and  whose 
betrothed  —  if  she  had  one  —  would  be  likely  to  go  to  sea 

and  remain  there. 

4th  Course 

A  Mr.  Charles  P.,  who  had  inoculated  himself  for  the  small- 
pox, to  the  great  discontentment  of  his  father. 

Dessert, 

consisting  of  inquiries  by  the  tall  Miss  P.  concerning  our 
travels  and  relations,  and  startling  revelations  of  her  own 
perilous  journeyings  by  the  short  one.  This  fragrant  repast 
was  preceded  by  a  Quaker  grace,  being  a  silence  of  ten  min- 
utes, and  was  interspersed  at  intervals  —  such  was  our  grati- 
tude and  pious  feeling  —  by  similar  golden  pauses.  The  whole 
was  followed  by  the  agreeable  exercise  of  walking  a  mile  to 
the  ferry-boat.  .  .  . 

If  I  ever  am  rich  enough,  I  intend  to  erect  a  monument 
in  Greenwood  Cemetery  to  my  hopes  of  dinner,  which  I 
buried  there.  Exhausted  nature  here  demands  repose. 

We  go  to  Staten  Island  this  afternoon.  How  long  we  shall 
stay  remains  to  be  seen.  We  shall  probably  not  arrive  at 
home  until  the  4th  or  5th  of  next  month. 

Maria  is  quite  well,  and  has  gone  to  visit  Mrs.  Child.  Love 
to  all.  Affectionately  your  brother,  T  R.  L. 


88  IRVING   TO    MRS.    PARISH 

LVI 

Washington  Irving  to  Mrs.  Parish 

1845. 

.  .  .  My  evening  drives,  though  lonely,  are  pleasant.  You 
can  have  no  idea  of  the  neighborhood  of  Madrid  from  that  of 
other  cities.  The  moment  you  emerge  from  the  gates  you 
enter  upon  a  desert ;  vast  wastes  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
on,  undulating,  and  in  part  hilly  country,  without  trees  or  hab- 
itation, green  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  and  cultivated  with 
grain,  but  burnt  by  the  summer  sun  into  a  variety  of  browns, 
some  of  them  rich,  though  sombre.  A  long  picturesque  line 
of  mountains  closes  the  landscape  to  the  west  and  north,  on 
the  summits  of  some  of  which  the  snow  lingers  even  in  mid- 
summer. The  road  I  generally  take,  though  a  main  road,  is 
very  solitary.  Now  and  then  I  meet  a  group  of  travelers  on 
horseback,  roughly  clad,  with  muskets  slung  behind  their  sad- 
dles, and  looking  very  much  like  the  robbers  they  are  armed 
against;  or  a  line  of  muleteers  from  the  distant  provinces, 
with  their  mules  hung  with  bells,  and  tricked  out  with  worsted 
bobs  and  tassels ;  or  a  goatherd  driving  his  flock  of  goats  home 
to  the  city  for  the  night,  to  furnish  milk  for  the  inhabitants. 
Every  group  seems  to  accord  with  the  wild,  half-savage  scenery 
around ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  such  scenery  and  such 
groups  should  be  in  the  midst  of  a  populous  and  ancient  capital. 
Some  of  the  sunsets  behind  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  shed- 
ding the  last  golden  rays  over  this  vast  melancholy  landscape, 
are  really  magnificent. 

I  have  had  much  pleasure  in  walking  on  the  Prado  on  bright 
moonlight  nights.  This  is  a  noble  walk  within  the  walls  of  the 
city,  and  not  far  from  my  dwelling.  It  has  alleys  of  stately 
trees,  and  is  ornamented  with  five  fountains,  decorated  with 
statuary  and  sculpture.  The  Prado  is  the  great  promenade  of 


HAWTHORNE   TO    LONGFELLOW  89 

the  city.  One  grand  alley  is  called  the  saloon,  and  is  partic- 
ularly crowded.  In  the  summer  evening  there  are  groups  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  seated  in  chairs,  and  holding  their  ter- 
tulians,  or  gossiping  parties,  until  a  late  hour.  But  what  most 
delights  me  are  the  groups  of  children,  attended  by  their  par- 
ents or  nurses,  who  gather  about  the  fountains,  take  hands,  and 
dance  in  rings  to  their  own  nursery  songs.  They  are  just  the 
little  beings  for  such  a  fairy  moonlight  scene.  I  have  watched 
them  night  after  night,  and  only  wished  I  had  some  of  my 
own  little  nieces  or  grandnieces  to  take  part  in  the  fairy  ring. 
These  are  all  the  scenes  and  incidents  I  can  furnish  you  from 
my  present  solitary  life. 

I  am  looking  soon  for  the  return  of  the  Albuquerques  to 
Madrid,  which  will  give  me  a  family  circle  to  resort  to.  Madame 
Albuquerque  always  calls  me  uncle,  and  I  endeavor  to  cheat 
myself  into  an  idea  that  she  is  a  niece ;  she  certainly  has  the 
kindness  and  amiableness  of  one,  and  her  children  are  most 
entertaining  companions  for  me. 

Your  letter  from  the  cottage  brings  with  it  all  the  recollec- 
tions of  the  place  —  its  trees  and  shrubs,  its  roses,  and  honey- 
suckles, and  humming-birds.  I  am  glad  to  find  that  my  old 
friend  the  catbird  still  builds  and  sings  under  the  window. 
You  speak  of  Vaney's  barking,  too ;  it  was  like  suddenly  hear- 
ing a  well-known  but  long-forgotten  voice,  for  it  has  been  a 
long  time  since  any  mention  was  made  of  that  most  meritorious 
little  dog. 

LVII 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  to  Henry  W.  Longfellow 

DEAR  LONGFELLOW  :  Salem'  June  4>  1848. 

I  got  as  far  as  Boston  yesterday  with  the  purpose  of  coming 
out  to  Cambridge  to  see  Stephen  and  yourself,  in  compliance 
with  his  letter.  An  engagement  of  business  obtruded  itself, 


90  LOWELL   TO   STILLMAN 

however,  and  I  was  detained  till  it  was  too  late  to  dine  with 
you.  So  I  thought  it  best  to  dispense  with  the  visit  altogether ; 
for  the  encounter  of  friends  after  long  separation  is  but  un- 
substantial and  ghostlike  without  a  dinner.  It  is  roast  beef 
that  gives  reality  to  everything !  If  he  is  gone,  pray  write 
him  how  unwillingly  I  failed  of  meeting  him ;  if  he  is  still  in 
Cambridge,  tell  him  how  happy  I  should  be  to  receive  him 
here  on  his  way  to  Portland.  I  think  he  might  spend  a  few 
days  pleasantly  enough,  for  I  would  introduce  him  to  all  the 
custom-house  officers,  beside  other  intellectual  society  !  Seri- 
ously, I  do  wish  he  would  come.  It  is  nearly  ten  years  since 
we  met  —  too  long  a  space  to  come  between  those  who  have 
kindly  recollections  of  each  other.  Ten  years  more  will  go 
near  to  make  us  venerable  men,  and  I  doubt  whether  it  will 
be  so  pleasant  to  meet  when  each  friend  shall  be  a  memento 
of  decay  to  the  other.  Very  tm]y  yourSj 

NATH.  HAWTHORNE. 

LVIII 
James  R.  Lowell  to  W.  J.  Stillman 1 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  Dresden,  Feb.  18, 1856. 

I  reproach  myself  bitterly  for  not  having  sooner  answered 
your  letter  —  but  what  is  the  use  of  spurring  an  already  beaten- 
out  horse?  What  energy  can  self-reproaches  communicate  to 
a  man  who  has  barely  resolution  enough  to  do  what  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  the  day,  and  who  shoves  everything  else 
over  into  the  never-coming  To-morrow?  To  say  all  in  one 
word,  I  have  been  passing  a  very  wretched  winter.  I  have 
been  out  of  health  and  out  of  spirits  —  gnawed  a  great  part 
of  the  time  by  an  insatiable  homesickness,  and  deprived  of  my 
usual  means  of  ridding  myself  of  bad  thoughts  by  putting  them 

1  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


LOWELL  TO   STILLMAN  91 

into  verse,  for  I  have  felt  always  that  I  was  here  for  the  specific 
end  of  learning  German,  and  not  of  pleasing  myself. 

Just  now  I  am  better  in  body  and  mind.  My  cure  has  been 
wrought  by  my  resolving  to  run  away  for  a  month  into  Italy. 
Think  of  it  —  Italy  !  I  shall  see  Page  and  Norton,  and  the 
grave  of  our  dear  little  Walter.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  am 
going,  and  in  ten  days. 

What  you  tell  me  about  the  Crayon  you  may  be  sure  fills 
me  with  very  sincere  regret.  It  does  not  need  to  tell  you 
how  much  interest  I  took  in  it  and  you ;  and,  what  is  better, 
my  interest  in  it  was  not  that  merely  of  a  friend  of  yours, 
but  sprung  from  a  conviction  that  it  would  do  much  for  the 
sesthetic  culture  of  our  people.  I  am  very  sorry  on  every 
account  that  it  is  to  be  given  up ;  I  had  hoped  so  much  from 
it.  It  is  a  consolation  to  me  to  think  that  you  will  be  restored 
to  the  practice  instead  of  the  criticism  and  exposition  of  Art, 
and  that  we  shall  get  some  more  pictures  like  the  one  which 
took  so  strong  a  hold  of  me  in  the  New  York  exhibition.  I 
shall  hope  to  become  the  possessor  of  one  myself  after  I  get 
quietly  settled  again  at  Elmwood,  with  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
of  my  first  course  of  lectures  off  my  shoulders.  You  must  come 
and  make  me  a  visit,  and  I  will  show  you  some  nice  studies  of 
landscape  in  our  neighborhood,  and  especially  one  bit  of  primi- 
tive forest  that  I  know  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  our  house. 

I  have  been  studying  like  a  dog  —  no,  dogs  don't  study ; 
I  mean  a  learned  pig  —  this  winter,  and  I  think  my  horizon 
has  grown  wider,  and  that  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  worth 
more  to  my  friends.  I  have  learned  the  boundaries  of  my  knowl- 
edge, and  Terra  Incognita  does  not  take  up  so  much  space  on 
my  maps.  In  German  I  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
my  progress  —  though  I  should  have  learned  more  of  the  col- 
loquial language  if  I  had  had  spirits  enough  to  go  into  any 
society.  But  I  have  literally  seen  nobody  but  the  inmates  of 


92  LOWELL  TO   STILLMAN 

our  own  household  and  my  books.  But  already  the  foreboding 
of  Italy  fills  me  with  new  life  and  soul.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  living  with  no  outlook  on  my  south  side,  and  as  if  a 
wall  had  been  toppled  over  which  darkened  all  my  windows  in 
that  direction.  Bodily  and  spiritually  I  have  suffered  here  with 
the  cold.  But  God  be  thanked,  it  will  soon  be  over. 

My  great  solace  —  or  distraction  —  has  been  the  theatre, 
which  is  here  excellent.  I  not  only  got  a  lesson  in  German, 
but  have  learned  much  of  the  technology  of  the  stage.  For 
historical  accuracy  in  costume  and  scenery  I  have  never  seen 
anything  comparable.  An  artistic  nicety  and  scrupulousness 
extends  itself  to  the  most  inconsidered  trifles,  in  which  so  much 
of  illusion  consists,  and  which  commonly  are  so  bungled  as  to 
draw  the  attention,  instead  of  evading  it  by  an  absorption  in 
the  universal. 

If  I  had  known  that  I  was  going  to  London,  I  should  have 
been  extremely  pleased  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Ruskin. 
But  my  journey  thither  was  sudden  and  flighty,  and  I  saw 
nobody  except  Hogarth,  Turner,  and  Rembrandt.  Hogarth's 
Marriage  a  la  Mode,  and  Rembrandt's  Jacob's  Dream,  at  Dul- 
wich  College,  gave  me  invaluable  suggestions. 

It  will  not  be  long  now,  I  hope,  before  I  see  you  at  Elmwood 
—  for  you  must  make  me  a  visit  as  soon  as  I  get  warm  in  my 
Italy  again.  It  is  all  bergab l  now,  and  I  shall  ere  long  feel  the 
swing  of  our  Atlantic  once  more.  The  very  thought  revives 
me.  We  seaboard  fellows  cannot  live  long  without  snuffing 
salt  water.  Let  me  hear  from  you  in  Italy  —  tell  me  what 
you  are  painting,  and  all  about  yourself.  As  soon  as  I  am 
myself  again  I  shall  try  to  make  my  friendship  of  some  worth 
to  you,  but  always 

I  am  your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  R.  L. 

l  Downhill.  —  EDS. 


DICKENS    TO    LEMON  93 

LIX 

Charles  Dickens  to  Mark  Lemon 
MY  DEAR  MARK:  H.  W.  Office,  July  2)  1856. 

I  am  concerned  to  hear  that  you  are  ill,  that  you  sit  down 
before  fires  and  shiver,  and  that  you  have  stated  times  for 
doing  so,  like  the  demons  in  the  melodramas,  and  that  you 
mean  to  take  a  week  to  get  well  in. 

Make  haste  about  it,  like  a  dear  fellow,  and  keep  up  your 
spirits,  because  I  have  made  a  bargain  with  Stanny  and  Web- 
ster that  they  shall  come  to  Boulogne  to-morrow  week,  Thursday 
the  i  oth,  and  stay  a  week.  And  you  know  how  much  pleasure 
we  shall  all  miss  if  you  are  not  among  us  —  at  least  for  some 
part  of  the  time 

If  you  find  any  unusually  light  appearance  in  the  air  at 
Brighton,  it  is  a  distant  refraction  —  I  have  no  doubt  —  of  the 
gorgeous  and  shining  surface  of  Tavistock  House,  now  tran- 
scendently  painted.  The  theatre  partition  is  put  up,  and  is  a 
work  of  such  terrific  solidity  that  I  suppose  it  will  be  dug  up, 
ages  hence,  from  the  ruins  of  London,  by  that  Australian  of 
Macaulay's  who  is  to  be  impressed  by  its  ashes.  I  have  wan- 
dered through  the  spectral  halls  of  the  Tavistock  mansion  two 
nights,  with  feeling  of  the  profoundest  depression.  I  have  break- 
fasted there,  like  a  criminal  in  Pentonville,  only  not  so  well. 
It  is  more  like  Westminster  Abbey  by  midnight  than  the  lowest- 
spirited  man  —  say  you  at  present,  for  example  —  can  well 
imagine. 

There  has  been  a  wonderful  robbery  at  Folkestone,  by  the 
new  manager  of  the  Pavilion,  who  succeeded  Giovannini.  He 
had  in  keeping  ^16,000  of  a  foreigner's,  and  bolted  with  it, 
as  he  supposed,  but  in  reality  with  only  ^1400  of  it.  The 
Frenchman  had  previously  bolted  with  the  whole,  which  was  the 
property  of  his  mother.  With  him  to  England  the  Frenchman 


94  BROOKS   TO   HIS    BROTHER 

brought  a  l  lady,'  who  was,  all  the  time  and  at  the  same  time, 
endeavoring  to  steal  all  the  money  from  him  and  bolt  with  it 
herself.  The  details  are  amazing,  and  all  the  money  —  a  few 
pounds  excepted  —  has  been  got  back. 

They  will  be  full  of  sympathy  and  talk  about  you  when  I  get 
home,  and  I  shall  tell  them  that  I  send  their  loves  beforehand. 
They  are  all  enclosed.  The  moment  you  feel  hearty,  just 
write  me  that  word  by  post.  I  shall  be  so  delighted  to  receive 
it.  Ever,  my  dear  boy, 

Your  affectionate  friend. 

LX 

Phillips  Brooks  to  his  Brother  George 
DEAR  GEORGE  :  Thanksgiving  Day,  1857. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  calculate,  you  are  at  this  moment  —  I 
have  made  all  due  allowance  for  difference  of  longitude  — 
sitting  down  to  the  turkey  and  plum  pudding.  Allow  me  to 
take  my  slice  with  you,  making  my  own  welcome,  and  finding 
a  seat  where  I  can.  What  a  stunner  of  a  fowl  !  See  John 
measuring  it  solemnly  with  his  eye,  and  trying  to  make  out 
whether  he  or  it  is  the  biggest.  We  won't  quarrel  about 
drumsticks.  You  shall  have  one,  and  I  the  other.  What  a 
pity  the  beast  was  n't  a  quadruped  !  To  think  of  having  dined 
only  yesterday  on  cold  mutton  with  rice  for  dessert,  and  now 
—  my  eye  !  do  just  look  at  that  cranberry  sauce.  How  quiet 
Pistols  is  !  No  matter ;  he  is  busy,  and  fast  getting  beyond 
the  speaking  point.  Hullo,  my  plate  's  clear ;  another  piece 
of  turkey,  if  you  please.  Don't  look  frightened.  Thanks- 
giving only  comes  once  a  year.  Gracious  !  Do  look  at  Fred. 
Now  do  be  a  little  moderate,  my  dear.  Don't  you  see  how 
hard  Arthur  is  trying  to  keep  up  with  you?  The  poor  boy 
will  kill  himself.  Here  comes  the  pudding  !  Father  of  course 


BROOKS   TO    HIS   BROTHER  95 

proposes  to  have  it  saved  till  to-morrow.  He  has  done  it 
every  Thanksgiving  Day  I  can  remember,  for  the  last  twenty- 
five  years.  But  you  don't !  We  finish  it  now,  if  we  never  eat 
again.  We  never  have  any  supper,  you  know,  on  Thanksgiving 
Days,  and  we  shall  be  all  right  by  breakfast  time.  .  .  .  Well, 
dinner  's  over,  and  Pistols  is  laid  up  on  the  sofa,  and  John's 
jacket  just  covers  the  small  of  his  back,  and  Fred  is  trying  to 
look  as  if  he  had  n't  eaten  too  much,  and  Father  is  looking  for 
somebody  to  go  to  walk  with  him.  You  had  better  go,  and  I 
will  leave  much  love  to  all,  and  take  the  next  train  of  thought 
for  Virginia.  O  reservoir  ! 

Your  loving,  busy  brother, 

PHIL. 

LXI 

Phillips  Brooks  to  his  Brother  William 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM  :  Monday  evening,  June  16,  1862. 

I  am  late  this  week,  but  you  must  lay  it  down  to  the  press 
and  rush  consequent  on  getting  home  from  a  week's  absence. 
All  last  week  I  was  away  on  a  Niagara  trip.  Mr.  Coffin,  my 
warden,  was  with  us.  We  left  early  Monday  morning,  and 
went  to  New  York,  where  we  spent  the  day,  and  at  five  o'clock 
took  the  Hudson  River  cars  for  Albany.  You  know  how 
beautiful  that  ride  is,  but  I  had  never  been  over  it  before,  and 
enjoyed  it  intensely.  We  spent  the  night  in  Albany  at  the 
Delavan  House,  and  the  next  morning  were  off  early  by  the 
N.  Y.  Central  for  the  Falls.  The  ride  across  New  York  state 
was  not  particularly  interesting,  and  we  were  glad  to  get  to 
the  Suspension  Bridge  in  the  evening.  We  went  at  once 
across,  and  up  to  the  Clifton  House,  where  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  found  myself  on  other  than  Uncle  Samuel's  Farm. 
It  was  dark  when  we  got  there,  and  so  I  slept  all  night  with 


96  BROOKS    TO    HIS    BROTHER 

the  roar  of  the  cataract,  which  I  had  not  yet  seen,  preparing 
me  for  the  morning  sight. 

When  I  woke  up,  full  in  the  view  from  my  room  window, 
there  it  was  !  Greater  than  any  dream  I  ever  formed  of  it. 
More  wonderful  and  awful  than  any  sight  I  had  supposed  our 
world  could  furnish.  Of  the  next  two  days  I  can't  tell  you 
much.  They  were  spent  in  an  incessant  wandering,  learning 
the  miracle  from  every  point  of  view  —  under  the  Falls  and 
over  the  Falls,  up  the  river  and  down  the  river,  from  the 
Bridge  and  the  Island  and  the  Tower,  and  what  is  after  all 
the  view  I  remember  most  vividly  —  that  grand  sweep  that  you 
see  from  the  front  piazza  of  the  Clifton  House.  We  went 
everywhere,  and  got  ourselves  full  of  the  glory  and  beauty  of 
Niagara.  The  most  wonderful  thing  to  me,  I  think,  was  the 
color,  both  of  the  Falls  and  of  the  river  —  its  changes,  and 
depths,  and  brilliancy.  I  never  knew  what  water  was  before. 

The  last  day  of  our  stay  was  at  the  Cataract  House,  though 
we  had  been  over  on  that  side  before.  On  Friday  afternoon 
we  left  for  Philadelphia,  coming  by  way  of  Buffalo,  and  Elmira, 
and  Williamsburg,  and  Reading,  over  the  famous  Catawissa 
road,  whose  scenery  is  more  marvelous  than  any  railroad ['s] 
in  the  land.  It  was  a  splendid  day's  ride  on  Saturday,  reach- 
ing home  about  seven  in  the  evening.  Now  you  have  got  my 
last  week  in  full. 

I  shall  leave  here  two  weeks  from  to-day,  and  probably 
come  right  to  Boston.  I  have  about  given  up  the  idea  of 
going  to  Newport.  I  don't  care  much  about  it,  and  I  want  to 
have  as  much  time  as  possible  at  home  before  I  go  to  the 
mountains.  So  look  for  me  probably  two  weeks  from  to-morrow 
morning,  and  then  <  What  larks  ! ' 

Affectionately,1 

PHIL. 

1  The  omission  of  '  yours '  is  noticeable,  because  so  rare  in  this  collection. 


LINCOLN    TO   GREELEY  97 

LXII 
Abraham  Lincoln  to  Horace  Greelcy 

Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  August  22,  1862. 

HON.  HORACE  GREELEY  : 

DEAR  SIR  : 

I  have  just  read  yours  of  the  iQth,  addressed  to  myself 
through  the  New  York  Tribune.  If  there  be  in  it  any 
statements  or  assumptions  of  fact  which  I  may  know  to  be 
erroneous,  I  do  not,  now  and  here,  controvert  them.  If  there 
be  in  it  any  inferences  which  I  may  believe  to  be  falsely  drawn, 
I  do  not,  now  and  here,  argue  against  them.  If  there  be  per- 
ceptible in  it  an  impatient  and  dictatorial  tone,  I  waive  it  in 
deference  to  an  old  friend  whose  heart  I  have  always  supposed 
to  be  right. 

As  to  the  policy  I  *  seem  to  be  pursuing,'  as  you  say,  I  have 
not  meant  to  leave  any  one  in  doubt. 

I  would  save  the  Union.  I  would  save  it  the  shortest  way 
under  the  Constitution.  The  sooner  the  national  authority  can 
be  restored,  the  nearer  the  Union  will  be  '  the  Union  as  it  was.1 
If  there  be  those  who  would  not  save  the  Union  unless  they 
could  at  the  same  time  destroy  slavery,  I  do  not  agree  with 
them.  My  paramount  object  in  this  struggle  is  to  save  the 
Union,  and  is  not  either  to  save  or  destroy  slavery.  If  I  could 
save  the  Union  without  freeing  any  slave,  I  would  do  it ;  and 
if  I  could  save  it  by  freeing  all  the  slaves,  I  would  do  it ;  and 
if  I  could  save  it  by  freeing  some  and  leaving  others  alone,  I 
would  also  do  that.  What  I  do  about  slavery  and  the  colored 
race,  I  do  because  I  believe  it  helps  to  save  the  Union ;  and 
what  I  forbear,  I  forbear  because  I  do  not  believe  it  would 
help  to  save  the  Union.  I  shall  do  less  whenever  I  shall 
believe  what  I  am  doing  hurts  the  cause,  and  I  shall  do  more 
whenever  I  shall  believe  doing  more  will  help  the  cause.  I 


98  LINCOLN   TO   HOOKER 

shall  try  to  correct  errors  when  shown  to  be  errors,  and  I  shall 
adopt  new  views  so  fast  as  they  shall  appear  to  be  true  views. 

I  have  here  stated  my  purpose  according  to  my  view  of 
official  duty ;  and  I  intend  no  modification  of  my  oft-expressed 
personal  wish  that  all  men  everywhere  could  be  free. 

Yours, 

A.  LINCOLN. 

LXIII 
Abraham  Lincoln  to  Joseph  Hooker 

Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  January  26,  1863. 

MAJOR-GENERAL  HOOKER  : 

GENERAL  : 

I  have  placed  you  at  the  head  of  the  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac. Of  course  I  have  done  this  upon  what  appear  to  me  to 
be  sufficient  reasons,  and  yet  I  think  it  best  for  you  to  know 
that  there  are  some  things  in  regard  to  which  I  am  not  quite 
satisfied  with  you.  I  believe  you  to  be  a  brave  and  skilful  sol- 
dier, which  of  course  I  like.  I  also  believe  you  do  not  mix  poli- 
tics with  your  profession,  in  which  you  are  right.  You  have 
confidence  in  yourself,  which  is  a  valuable  if  not  an  indispen- 
sable quality.  You  are  ambitious,  which,  within  reasonable 
bounds,  does  good  rather  than  harm ;  but  I  think  that  during 
General  Burnside's  command  of  the  army  you  have  taken 
counsel  of  your  ambition  and  thwarted  him  as  much  as  you 
could,  in  which  you  did  a  great  wrong  to  the  country  and  to  a 
most  meritorious  and  honorable  brother  officer.  I  have  heard, 
in  such  a  way  as  to  believe  it,  of  your  recently  saying  that  both 
the  army  and  the  government  needed  a  dictator.  Of  course  it 
was  not  for  this,  but  in  spite  of  it,  that  I  have  given  you  the 
command.  Only  those  generals  who  gain  successes  can  set  up 
dictators.  What  I  now  ask  of  you  is  military  success,  and  I 
will  risk  the  dictatorship.  The  government  will  support  you  to 


LINCOLN   TO   GRANT  99 

the  utmost  of  its  ability,  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it 
has  done  and  will  do  for  all  commanders.  I  much  fear  that 
the  spirit  which  you  have  aided  to  infuse  into  the  army,  of 
criticizing  their  commander  and  withholding  confidence  from 
him,  will  now  turn  upon  you.  I  shall  assist  you  as  far  as  I  can 
to  put  it  down.  Neither  you  nor  Napoleon,  if  he  were  alive 
again,  could  get  any  good  out  of  an  army  while  such  a  spirit 
prevails  in  it;  and  now  beware  of  rashness,  but  with  energy 
and  sleepless  vigilance  go  forward  and  give  us  victories. 

Yours  very  truly, 

A.  LINCOLN. 

LXIV 
Abraham  Lincoln  to  U.  S.  Grant 

Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  April  30,  1864. 

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL  GRANT  : 

Not  expecting  to  see  you  again  before  the  spring  campaign 
opens,  I  wish  to  express  in  this  way  my  entire  satisfaction  with 
what  you  have  done  up  to  this  time,  so  far  as  I  understand  it. 
The  particulars  of  your  plans  I  neither  know  nor  seek  to  know. 
You  are  vigilant  and  self-reliant ;  and,  pleased  with  this,  I  wish 
not  to  obtrude  any  constraints  or  restraints  upon  you.  While 
I  am  very  anxious  that  any  great  disaster  or  capture  of  our 
men  in  great  numbers  shall  be  avoided,  I  know  these  points 
are  less  likely  to  escape  your  attention  than  they  would  be 
mine.  If  there  is  anything  wanting  which  is  within  my  power 
to  give,  do  not  fail  to  let  me  know  it.  And  now,  with  a  brave 
army  and  a  just  cause,  may  God  sustain  you  ! 
Yours  very  truly, 

A.  LINCOLN. 


100  LINCOLN    TO    MRS.  BIXBY 

LXV 
Abraham  Lincoln  to  Mrs.  Bixby 

Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  November  21,  1864. 

MRS.  BIXBY,  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS  : 

DEAR  MADAM  : 

I  have  been  shown  in  the  files  of  the  War  Department  a 
statement  of  the  Adjutant-General  of  Massachusetts  that  you 
are  the  mother  of  five  sons  who  have  died  gloriously  on  the 
field  of  battle.  I  feel  how  weak  and  fruitless  must  be  any 
words  of  mine  which  should  attempt  to  beguile  you  from  the 
grief  of  a  loss  so  overwhelming,  but  I  cannot  refrain  from 
tendering  to  you  the  consolation  that  may  be  found  in  the 
thanks  of  the  Republic  they  died  to  save.  I  pray  that  the 
Heavenly  Father  may  assuage  the  anguish  of  your  bereave- 
ment, and  leave  you  only  the  cherished  memory  of  the  loved 
and  lost,  and  the  solemn  pride  that  must  be  yours  to  have 
laid  so  costly  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  freedom. 

Yours  very  sincerely  and  respectfully, 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

LXVI 
Dr.  Livingstone  to  his  Daughter  Agnes 1 

Bombay,  September  20,  1865. 

...  By  advice  of  the  Governor  I  went  up  to  Nassick,  to 
see  if  the  Africans  there  under  Government  instruction  would 
suit  my  purpose  as  members  of  the  expedition.  I  was  present 
at  the  examination  of  a  large  school  under  Mr.  Price,  by  the 
Bishop  of  Bombay.  It  is  partly  supported  by  Government. 
The  pupils  (108)  are  not  exclusively  African,  but  all  showed 
very  great  proficiencies.  They  excelled  in  music.  I  found 

1  Preparation  for  the  last  journey. 


LIVINGSTONE  TO  HIS.  DgAy£fH!rl.ER  ijOi 

some  of  the  Africans  to  have* come  from  parts  I  know  —  one 
from  Ndonde  on  the  Rovuma  —  and  all  had  learned  some 
handicraft,  besides  reading,  writing,  etc.,  and  it  is  probable 
that  some  of  them  will  go  back  to  their  own  country  with  me. 
Eight  have  since  volunteered  to  go.  Besides  these  I  am  to 
get  some  men  from  the  Marine  Battalion  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  rough  it  in  various  ways,  and  their  pensions 
will  be  given  to  their  widows  if  they  should  die.  The  Gov- 
ernor [Sir  Bar  tie  Frere]  is  going  to  do  what  he  can  for  my 
success. 

After  going  back  to  Bombay  I  came  up  to  near  Poonah, 
and  am  now  at  Government  House,  the  guest  of  the  Gov- 
ernor. Society  here  consists  mainly  of  officers  and  their 
wives.  .  .  .  Miss  Frere,  in  the  absence  of  Lady  Frere,  does 
the  honors  of  the  establishment,  and  very  nicely  she  does 
it.  She  is  very  clever,  and  quite  unaffected  —  very  like  her 
father.  .  .  . 

Christianity  is  gradually  diffusing  itself,  leavening  as  it  were 
in  various  ways  the  whole  mass.  When  a  man  becomes  a 
professor  of  Christianity,  he  is  at  present  cast  out,  abandoned 
by  all  his  relations,  even  by  his  wife  and  children.  This 
state  of  things  makes  some  who  don't  care  about  Christian 
progress  say  that  all  Christian  servants  are  useless.  They 
are  degraded  by  their  own  countrymen,  and  despised  by 
others,  but  time  will  work  changes.  Mr.  Maine,  who  came 
out  here  with  us,  intends  to  introduce  a  law  whereby  a  con- 
vert deserted  by  his  wife  may  marry  again.  It  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  text  in  Corinthians  :  'If  an  unbelieving  wife 
depart,  let  her  depart.'  People  will  gradually  show  more 
sympathy  with  the  poor  fellows  who  come  out  of  heathenism, 
and  discriminate  between  the  worthy  and  unworthy. 

You  should  read  Lady  Duff  Gordon's  Letters  from  Egypt. 
They  show  a  nice  sympathizing  heart,  and  are  otherwise  very 


1O2  STEVEN'SON    TO    HIS    MOTHER 

interesting.  She  saw  the  people  as  they  are.  Most  people 
see  only  the  outside  of  things.  Avoid  all  nasty  French  novels. 
They  are  very  injurious,  and  effect  a  lasting  injury  on  the 
mind  and  heart. 

I  go  up  to  Government  House  again  three  days  hence, 
and  am  to  deliver  two  lectures  —  one  at  Poonah,  and  one 
at  Bombay. 

LXVII 
R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Mother1 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  Wick'  Friday'  September  ii,  1868. 

.  .  .  Wick  lies  at  the  end  or  elbow  of  an  open  triangular 
bay,  hemmed  on  either  side  by  shores,  either  cliff  of  steep 
earth-bank  of  no  great  height.  The  gray  houses  of  Pulteney 
extend  along  the  southerly  shore  to  the  cape ;  and  it  is  about 
half-way  down  this  shore  —  no,  six-sevenths  way  down  —  that 
the  new  breakwater  extends  athwart  the  bay.  Certainly  Wick 
in  itself  possesses  no  beauty  :  bare  gray  shores,  grim  gray 
houses,  grim  gray  sea ;  not  even  the  gleam  of  red  tiles ;  not 
even  the  greenness  of  a  tree.  The  southerly  heights,  when 
I  came  here,  were  black  with  people,  fishing  waiting  on  wind 
and  night.  Now  all  the  S.  Y.  S.  (Stornoway  boats)  have 
beaten  out  of  the  bay,  and  the  Wick  men  stay  indoors,  or 
wrangle  on  the  quays  with  dissatisfied  fish-curers,  knee-high 
in  brine,  mud,  and  herring  refuse.  The  day  when  the  boats 
put  out  to  go  home  to  the  Hebrides,  the  girl  here  told  me 
there  was  '  a  black  wind ' ;  and  on  going  out  I  found  the 
epithet  as  justifiable  as  it  was  picturesque.  A  cold,  black 
southerly  wind,  with  occasional  rising  showers  of  rain ;  it  was 
a  fine  sight  to  see  the  boats  beat  out  a-teeth  of  it. 

1  From  The  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


STEVENSON   TO    HIS    MOTHER  103 

In  Wick  I  have  never  heard  any  one  greet  his  neighbor 
with  the  usual  *  Fine  day  ! '  or  '  Good  morning  !  '  Both  come 
shaking  their  heads,  and  both  say,  *  Breezy,  breezy  ! '  And 
such  is  the  atrocious  quality  of  the  climate  that  the  remark 
is  almost  invariably  justified  by  the  fact. 

The  streets  are  full  of  the  Highland  fishers,  lubberly,  stupid, 
inconceivably  lazy  and  heavy  to  move.  You  bruise  against 
them,  tumble  over  them,  elbow  them  against  the  wall  —  all 
to  no  purpose ;  they  will  not  budge ;  and  you  are  forced  to 
leave  the  pavement  every  step. 

To  the  south,  however,  is  as  fine  a  piece  of  coast  scenery 
as  I  ever  saw.  Great  black  chasms,  huge  black  cliffs,  rugged 
and  overhung  gullies,  natural  arches,  and  deep  green  pools 
below  them,  almost  too  deep  to  let  you  see  the  gleam  of  sand 
among  the  darker  weed ;  there  are  deep  caves,  too.  In  one 
of  these  lives  a  tribe  of  gipsies.  The  men  are  always  drunk, 
simply  and  truthfully  always.  From  morning  to  evening  the 
great  villainous-looking  fellows  are  either  sleeping  off  the  last 
debauch,  or  hulking  about  the  cove  '  in  the  horrors.'  The 
cave  is  deep,  high,  and  airy,  and  might  be  made  comfortable 
enough.  But  they  just  live  among  heaped  boulders,  damp 
with  continual  droppings  from  above,  with  no  more  furniture 
than  two  or  three  tin  pans,  a  truss  of  rotten  straw,  and  a  few 
ragged  cloaks.  In  winter  the  surf  bursts  into  the  mouth,  and 
often  forces  them  to  abandon  it. 

An  emeute1  of  disappointed  fishers  was  feared,  and  two 
ships  of  war  are  in  the  bay  to  render  assistance  to  the  munici- 
pal authorities.  This  is  the  Ides;  and,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  said  Ides  are  passed.  Still  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
disturbance,  many  drunk  men,  and  a  double  supply  of  police. 
I  saw  them  sent  for  by  some  people,  and  enter  an  inn  in  a 
pretty  good  hurry ;  what  it  was  for  I  do  not  know, 
i  Outbreak.  — EDS. 


104  HUXLEY    TO   ARNOLD 

You  would  see  by  papa's  letter  about  the  carpenter  who 
fell  off  the  staging ;  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  much  excited 
in  my  life.  The  man  was  back  at  his  work,  and  I  asked  him 
how  he  was ;  but  he  was  a  Highlander,  and  —  need  I  add 
it  ?  —  dickens  a  word  could  I  understand  of  his  answer.  What 
is  still  worse,  I  find  the  people  hereabout  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
Highlanders,  not  the  northmen  —  don't  understand  me. 

I  have  lost  a  shilling's  worth  of  postage  stamps,  which  has 
damped  my  ardor  for  buying  big  lots  of  'em :  I  '11  buy  them 
one  at  a  time  as  I  want  'em  for  the  future. 

The  Free  Church  minister  and  I  got  quite  thick.  He  left 
last  night  about  two  in  the  morning,  when  I  went  to  turn  in. 
He  gave  me  the  enclosed. 

I  remain  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

LXVIII 
Thomas  Hnxley  to  MattJiew  Arnold 

MY  DEAR  ARNOLD  :  26  Abbey  place'  Jul?  8th'  [l869  ?1 

Look  at  Bishop  Wilson  on  the  sin  of  covetousness,  and  then 
inspect  your  umbrella-stand.  You  will  there  see  a  beautiful 
brown  smooth-handled  umbrella  which  is  NOT  your  property. 
Think  of  what  the  excellent  prelate  would  have  advised, 
and  bring  it  with  you  next  time  you  come  to  the  club.  The 
porter  will  take  care  of  it  for  me. 

Ever  yours  faithfully, 

T.  H.  HUXLEY. 


TENNYSON    TO   WHITE  105 

LXIX 
Lewis  Carroll  to  Isabel 

The  Chestnuts,  Guildford,  August  22,  1869. 
MY  DEAR  ISABEL  : 

Though  I  have  only  been  acquainted  with  you  for  fifteen 
minutes,  yet  as  there  is  no  one  else  in  Reading  I  have  known 
so  long,  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  my  troubling  you.  Before 
I  met  you  in  the  Gardens  yesterday  I  bought  some  old  books 
at  a  shop  in  Reading,  which  I  left  to  be  called  for,  and  had 
not  time  to  go  back  for  them.  I  did  not  even  remark  the 
name  of  the  shop,  but  I  can  tell  where  it  was,  and  if  you 
know  the  name  of  the  woman  who  keeps  the  shop,  and  would 
put  it  into  the  blank  I  have  left  in  this  note,  and  direct  it  to 
her,  I  should  be  much  obliged.  ...  A  friend  of  mine,  called 
Mr.  Lewis  Carroll,  tells  me  he  means  to  send  you  a  book. 
He  is  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine.  I  have  known  him  all  my 
life  —  we  are  the  same  age  —  and  have  never  left  him.  Of 
course  he  was  with  me  in  the  Gardens,  not  a  yard  off  —  even 
while  I  was  drawing  those  puzzles  for  you.  I  wonder  if  you 
saw  him? 

Your  fifteen-minute  friend, 

C.  L.  DODGSON. 

LXX 

Alfred  Tennyson  to  John  White 

DEAR  SlR  •  Farringford,  March  8th,  1870. 

Your  present1  has  rather  amazed  me,  though  not  unpleas- 
antly ;  so  I  accept  it  with  thanks,  and  I  will  sit  by  the  '  blue 

1  '  He  received  from  a  stranger,  Mr.  John  White  of  Cowes,  a  melancholy 
letter,  and  a  present  of  a  cart-load  of  wood  —  old  oak  from  one  of  the  broken- 
up  men-of-war.' 


106  BROOKS    TO   MITCHELL 

light '  gratefully,  and  hope  for  you  that  your  light  may  be  no 
longer  '  low,'  and  if  you  ever  come  my  way  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  you. 

Yours  faithfully, 

A.  TENNYSON. 

LXXI 

Phillips  Brooks  to  Weir  Mitchell 

MY  DEAR  WEIR  :  Meran>  Tyrol>  A"gust  14,  1870. 

Cooper  and  I  have  been  spending  a  week  among  the  Dolo- 
mite Mountains  in  the  very  heart  of  Tyrol,  and  we  have  wished 
so  often  that  you  were  with  us  that  I  have  been  much  put  in 
mind  of  you  all  the  week,  and  now  that  we  have  climbed  up 
into  the  nest  of  vineyards  for  Sunday,  I  am  going  to  do  what  I 
have  meant  to  do  ever  since  we  got  among  the  hills,  and  write 
a  report  of  myself.  The  hills  have  been  too  many  for  me. 
They  have  piled  in  by  the  hundreds,  and  buried  my  best 
intentions  of  letter- writing  —  hills  of  all  sorts,  big  and  little, 
Swiss  and  Tyrolean,  grassy  and  snowy,  with  glaciers  and  without 
glaciers,  each  sort  always  fiercer  than  the  sort  before  it,  and  last 
of  all  these  wonderful  Dolomites,  perhaps  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  the  way  of  mountains  that  I  have  ever  seen.  They 
lie  in  a  vast  group  to  the  east  of  the  Great  Brenner  road, 
and  to  the  south  of  the  Puster  —  that  which  runs  through  Tyrol 
from  west  to  east.  The  great  Ampezzo  road  into  Italy  runs 
right  through  their  midst.  They  shoot  up  singly  or  in  vast 
groups  and  ranges,  sheer  masses  of  rock  —  black,  red,  or  daz- 
zling white  —  three,  four,  five  thousand  feet  into  the  sky,  with 
tops  indescribably  broken  into  spires  and  towers  and  castles, 
with  great  buttresses  against  their  sides,  and  acres  of  snow 
upon  their  sloping  roofs.  Between  the  groups,  right  from 
their  very  feet,  start  down  the  most  exquisite  steep,  green 


BROOKS   TO   MITCHELL  107 

valleys  overrunning  with  luxuriant  cultivation,  with  picturesque 
villages  clinging  to  their  sides,  and  wild  brooks  brawling  along 
their  bottoms.  From  valley  to  valley  you  climb  over  steep 
meadowy  passes  standing  between  two  of  the  giants  at  the  top. 
Everywhere  grand  views  are  opening  of  the  great  Marmolata, 
which  is  the  king  of  all  these  mountains,  with  his  miles  of 
snow.  The  constant  contrast  of  wild,  rugged  majesty  with 
the  perfect  softness  and  beauty  of  the  valleys  is  very  fasci- 
nating. The  mountains  get  their  name,  oddly  enough,  from 
a  certain  M.  Dolomieu.  He  did  n't  make  them,  but  some  years 
ago  he  first  discovered  what-they  were  made  of.  I  believe  it 
is  some  peculiar  preparation  of  magnesia.  I  wonder  if  some 
day  a  metaphysician  —  or,  if  the  materialist  people  are  right, 
a  physician  —  of  the  future  finds  out  at  last  what  this  human 
nature  of  ours  is  made  of,  whether  the  whole  race  will  be 
named  over  again  for  him,  and  we  shall  all  have  to  be  called 
by  his  name  for  ever  and  ever.  How  the  mountains  must 
have  laughed,  or  frowned,  at  the  poor  little  Frenchman  who 
said,  i  I  have  found  out  that  you  are  magnesia,  and  so  you 
must  be  called  Dolomites  eternally  ! ' 

The  southern  Tyroleans  are  very  interesting  people.  There 
is  a  pleasant  mixture  of  German  and  Italian  in  their  character, 
as  there  is  in  their  dress  and  language  and  look.  They  are 
very  cheerful  and  very  industrious,  the  men  handsome,  and 
many  of  the  young  women  pretty.  Their  beds  are  short,  and 
the  bread  is  awful,  but  they  always  give  you  your  candle  with 
a  '  May  you  sleep  well ! '  and  tell  you  that  dinner  is  ready 
with  a  '  May  you  dine  well ! '  that  makes  the  footboard  seem  a 
little  softer,  and  the  bread  not  quite  so  musty.  If  you  are 
unfortunate  enough  to  sneeze,  the  whole  country  takes  off  its 
hat,  and  '  God  bless  you  !  '  resounds  from  every  Dolomite  in 
the  land.  Here  on  Sunday  they  are  sunning  themselves  in 
the  pleasant  gardens  of  the  Meran,  looking  as  picturesque  as 


108  BROOKS   TO    MITCHELL 

possible  with  their  tall  hats  and  red  jackets  and  big  green  sus- 
penders and  great  embroidered  belts  and  bare  knees  and  black 
breeches.  They  are  thoroughly  hospitable,  and  help  a  fellow 
out  with  his  imperfect  vocabulary  by  generally  knowing  just 
what  he  wants,  or  at  any  rate  what  is  the  best  for  him  to  have. 
If  you  could  see  the  route  that  Cooper  and  I  have  come  over, 
you  would  know  that  a  very  little  German  can  go  a  great  way 
in  Tyrol. 

Meanwhile  this  disheartening  war  goes  on,  and  we  hear  of 
it  at  intervals  in  the  mountains.  These  Austrians  hate  both 
sides  so  thoroughly  that  any  news  of  battle  is  welcome  to 
them,  because  one  side  is  beaten  and  some  of  their  enemies 
are  killed.  The  great  battle  of  last  week,  and  the  unexpected 
rout  of  the  French,  has  changed  the  look  of  things.  With 
Paris  in  his  rear  already  sizzling  with  revolution,  and  the  Prus- 
sian cavalry  afront  of  Metz,  it  does  seem  possible  that  this  war 
may  be  the  suicide  of  the  wretch  who  has  brought  it  on,  with 
all  its  horrors,  so  needlessly  and  wickedly.  It  seems  to  me 
that  nothing  could  make  one  so  despondent  about  human 
nature  and  the  world,  who  was  inclined  that  way,  as  just  such 
a  war  as  this,  coming  at  this  time  of  the  day  in  history. 

Cooper  sends  you  his  love,  and  wishes  you  had  been  with  us 
among  these  Dolomites.  The  poor  fellow  is  groaning  over  a 
letter  in  the  next  room.  He  and  I  are  alone  now.  Newton 
was  with  us  for  ten  days,  and  I  liked  him  exceedingly.  We  go 
hence  by  Innsbruck,  then  by  the  Finstermunz  and  Stelvio 
passes  into  Italy,  then  through  the  Engadine  north  again; 
and  I  go  to  Paris  if  I  can  get  there.  I  said  on  the  loth  of 
September.  I  hope  to  find  at  Innsbruck  the  letter  you 
promised  me  from  the  Pictured  Rocks.  I  hope  you  have  had 
a  good  summer.  God  bless  you  always. 

P.  B. 


ARNOLD    TO   HIS    MOTHER  109 

LXXII 

Matthew  Arnold  to  his  Mother 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER  :  The  Athenreum,  March  20,  1871. 

I  send  you  an  Edinburgh  note,  which  [you]  may  burn  after  it 
has  shown  you  what  faithful  hearts  are  scattered  about  the  world, 
and  another  from  Deutsch,  the  Talmud  man,  which  is  worth 
keeping  as  an  autograph,  if  Fan  can  muster  energy  to  have 
the  autograph  book  put  in  a  proper  state,  and  to  go  on  with  it. 
I  find  it  very  useful  and  interesting  to  know  the  signification  of 
names,  and  had  written  to  ask  him  whether  Jerusalem  meant 
'  the  vision  of  peace '  or  '  the  foundation  of  peace  ' ;  either 
meaning  is  beautiful,  but  I  wished  for  the  first,  as  the  more 
beautiful.  However,  you  will  see  what  he  says.  I  should 
have  written  to  you  yesterday,  but  was  taken  out  for  a  walk  by 
the  little  girls. 

Our  white  violets  have  spread  and  prospered,  but  one  of  the 
young  Harrow  masters  has  found  them  out,  and  has  been 
unprincipled  enough  to  carry  off  some  plants,  for  which  I 
gave  it  him  well  yesterday,  catching  him  almost  in  the  act, 
and  coming  away  with  his  spoil.  I  know  of  but  one  clump  of 
blue  violets  near  Harrow,  and  that  is  kept  well  picked  by 
village  children.  However,  we  found  one  or  two  in  it,  to  the 
little  girls'  great  delight.  Tell  Fan  the  daffodils  respect  them- 
selves too  much  to  blossom  in  our  dull  soil,  and  are  all  running 
to  leaf  without  any  flower. 

What  news  from  Paris  !  One  hardly  knows  what  to  wish, 
except  that  the  present  generation  of  Frenchmen  may  pass 
clean  away  as  soon  as  possible,  and  be  replaced  by  a  better 
one.  I  am  not  sorry  that  the  English  sightseers,  who,  with  the 
national  vulgarity,  have  begun  to  flock  over  to  the  show  of 
fallen  Paris  and  France,  should  be  put  to  a  little  fright  and 
inconvenience.  One  thing  is  certain  —  that,  miserable  as  it 


110  STEVENSON   TO   HIS   FATHER 

is  for  herself,  there  is  no  way  by  which  France  can  make  the 
rest  of  Europe  so  alarmed  and  uneasy  as  by  a  socialistic  and 
red  republic.  It  is  a  perpetual  flag  to  the  proletaire  class 
everywhere  —  the  class  which  makes  all  governments  uneasy. 
I  doubt  whether  the  Departments  will  have  the  energy  to 
coerce  Paris;  they  would  like  to,  but  they  have  never  done 

it  yet. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

M.  A. 
LXXIII 

R.  W.  Emerson  to  Alfred  Tennyson 
MY  DEAR  MR.  TENNYSON  :  January  21,  1872. 

I  cannot  let  my  daughter  pass  through  London  without 
tasking  your  benevolence  to  give  her  the  sight  of  your  face. 
Her  husband,  Col.  Wm.  H.  Forbes — himself  a  good  soldier  in 
the  Massachusetts  Volunteers  in  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  — 
and  Edith  set  forth  to-morrow  for  England,  France,  and  Italy, 
and  I  of  course  shall  not  think  that  they  see  England  unless 
they  see  you.  I  pray  you  to  gratify  them  and  me  so  far.  You 
shall  not  write  a  line  the  less,  and  I  shall  add  this  grace  to 
your  genius.  With  kindest  remembrance  of  my  brief  meeting 

with  you, 

Yours  always, 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 
LXXIV 
R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Father^ 

Frankfurt,  Rosengasse  13,  August  4th,  1872. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER  : 

You  will  perceive  by  the  head  of  this  page  that  we  have  at 
last  got  into  lodgings,  and  powerfully  mean  ones  too.     If  I 

1  From  Other  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.    Copyright,  1899,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


STEVENSON    TO    HIS    FATHER  III 

were  to  call  the  street  anything  but  shady,  I  should  be  boast- 
ing. The  people  sit  at  their  doors  in  shirt-sleeves,  smoking  as 
they  do  in  Seven  Dials  of  a  Sunday. 

Last  night  we  went  to  bed  about  ten,  for  the  first  time 
householders  in  Germany  —  real  Teutons,  with  no  deception, 
spring,  or  false  bottom.  About  half-past  one  there  began  such 
a  trumpeting,  shouting,  pealing  of  bells,  and  scurrying  hither 
and  thither  of  feet  as  woke  every  person  in  Frankfurt  out 
of  their  fast  sleep  with  a  vague  sort  of  apprehension  that  the 
last  day  was  at  hand.  The  whole  street  was  alive,  and  we 
could  hear  people  talking  in  their  rooms,  or  crying  to  passers-by 
from  their  windows,  all  around  us.  At  last  I  made  out  what  a 
man  was  saying  in  the  next  room.  It  was  a  fire  in  Sachsen- 
hausen,  he  said  —  Sachsenhausen  is  the  suburb  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Main  —  and  he  wound  up  with  one  of  the  most  tremen- 
dous falsehoods  on  record,  '  Hier  alles  ruht  —  here  all  is  still.' 
If  it  can  be  said  to  be  still  in  an  engine  factory,  or  in  the 
stomach  of  a  volcano  when  it  is  meditating  an  eruption,  he 
might  have  been  justified  in  what  he  said,  but  not  otherwise. 
The  tumult  continued  unabated  for  near  an  hour  •  but  as  one 
grew  to  it,  it  gradually  resolved  itself  into  three  bells,  answering 
each  other  at  short  intervals  across  the  town,  a  man  shouting, 
at  ever  shorter  intervals  and  with  superhuman  energy,  'Feuer 
im  Sachsenhausen,'  and  the  almost  continuous  winding  of  all 
manner  of  bugles  and  trumpets,  sometimes  in  stirring  flourishes, 
and  sometimes  in  mere  tuneless  wails.  Occasionally  there  was 
another  rush  of  feet  past  the  window,  and  once  there  was  a 
mighty  drumming,  down  between  us  and  the  river,  as  though 
the  soldiery  were  turning  out  to  keep  the  peace.  This  was  all 
we  had  of  the  fire,  except  a  great  cloud,  all  flushed  red  with 
the  glare,  above  the  roofs  on  the  other  side  of  the  Gasse ;  but 
it  was  quite  enough  to  put  me  entirely  off  my  sleep  and  make 
me  keenly  alive  to  three  or  four  gentlemen  who  were  strolling 


112  LONGFELLOW  TO   TENNYSON 

leisurely  about  my  person,  and  every  here  and  there  leaving 
me  somewhat  as  a  keepsake.  .  .  .  However,  everything  has 
its  compensation,  and  when  day  came  at  last,  and  the  sparrows 
awoke  with  trills  and  carol-ets,  the  dawn  seemed  to  fall  on  me 
like  a  sleeping  draught.  I  went  to  the  window  and  saw  the 
sparrows  about  the  eaves,  and  a  great  troop  of  doves  go  strolling 
up  the  paven  Gasse,  seeking  what  they  may  \_sic~\  devour.  And 
so  to  sleep,  despite  fleas  and  fire-alarms  and  clocks  chiming  the 
hours  out  of  neighbouring  houses  at  all  sorts  of  odd  times  and 
with  the  most  charming  want  of  unanimity. 

We  have  got  settled  down  in  Frankfurt,  and  like  the  place 
very  much.  Simpson  and  I  seem  to  get  on  very  well  together. 
We  suit  each  other  capitally;  and  it  is  an  awful  joke  to  be 
living  —  two  would-be  advocates,  and  one  a  baronet  —  in  this 
supremely  mean  abode.  The  abode  is,  however,  a  great 
improvement  on  the  hotel,  and  I  think  we  shall  grow  quite 
fond  of  it. 

Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

LXXV 
Henry  W.  Longfellow  to  Alfred  Tennyson 

MY  DEAR  TENNYSON  :  Cambridge,  Nov.  27th,  1877. 

Accept  this  brief  Christmas  greeting  from  me,  with  all  good 
wishes  for  yourself  and  household. 

Yours  faithfully, 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


ARNOLD   TO    HIS    SISTER  113 

LXXVI 
Matthew  Arnold  to  his  Sister 

Cobham,  Sunday,  [May  25,  1879]. 
MY  DEAREST  FAN  : 

Fanny  Lucy  is  gone  to  church,  and  I  am  alone  in  the  house. 
Geist  finds  me  dull,  and  has  begged  me  to  let  him  out  into  the 
garden ;  now  he  has  had  his  bark  at  the  thrushes,  and  I  hear 
him  pattering  upstairs  to  bed,  his  invariable  resource  when  he 
is  bored  or  sorrowful.  The  girls  are  at  Harrow,  as  you  know. 

It  has  been  a  most  beautiful  day,  and  the  foliage  is  almost 
all  out,  and  now  in  a  day  or  two  we  shall  have  the  May  and 
the  chestnut  blossom.  I  have  never  known  the  birds  so  rich 
and  strong  in  their  singing :  I  had  two  blackbirds  and  three 
thrushes  running  about  together  on  the  grass  under  my  window 
as  I  was  getting  up  yesterday  morning,  and  a  stock-dove  has 
built  her  nest  in  the  leaning  ivied  fir-tree  which  you  will  remem- 
ber, between  the  house  and  the  stables.  So  there  is  plenty  of 
music,  and  the  cuckoo  comes  in  amidst  it  all.  I  am  told  by 
the  natives  that  the  nightingale  used  always  to  build  in  the 
shrubberies  of  the  cottage,  but  she  has  given  up  that  good 
habit ; .  however,  all  round  us  the  nightingales  postively  swarm. 
We  dined  at  Effingham  last  night,  and  twice  as  we  drove  home 
the  man  stopped  to  call  our  attention  to  the  chorus  of  nightin- 
gales. At  one  place,  a  thicket  just  before  entering  upon  Effing- 
ham  Common,  they  were  almost  maddeningly  beautiful.  It  is 
a  great  loss  to  the  North  and  the  South-west  of  England  not  to 
have  them  ;  their  extraordinary  effectiveness  is  shown  by  even 
the  poor  people  being  so  much  interested  about  them,  and 
always  knowing  their  habits  and  their  haunts.  I  should  like 
to  have  you  here  for  the  cowslips  and  the  nightingales;  and  it 
really  must  be  arranged  next  year,  if  we  live.  The  effect  of  read- 
ing so  much  of  Wordsworth  lately  has  been  to  make  me  feel  more 


114  STEVENSON    TO  HENLEY 

keenly  than  usual  the  beauty  of  the  common  incidents  of  the 
natural  year,  and  I  am  sure  that  is  a  good  thing. 

I  have  got  a  week  before  me  which  I  don't  much  care  about : 
three  dinners  in  London,  and  I  am  to  be  taken  to  the  Derby  by 
George  Smith.  He  offered  to  take  me  and  show  me  the  whole 
thing,  and  it  seems  absurd  never  to  have  seen  such  a  famous 
sight,  but  at  present  I  look  forward  to  the  day  as  a  boring  one, 
and  wish  it  was  over. 

I  think  about  the  Irish  University  Question  I  have  effected 
some  real  good.  You  saw  Lowe's  speech,  and  Sir  Louis  Mallet 
told  me  that  Bright  was  dining  with  him  the  other  night,  and 
said  there  was  not  a  word  of  my  argument  for  the  Catholics 
which  did  not  carry  him  thoroughly  along  with  it.  Now  good- 
bye, my  dearest  Fan.  How  I  wish  we  had  you  here  with  us  ! 
Your  ever  most  affectionate 

M.  A. 

LXXVII 
R.  L.  Stevenson  to  W.  E.  Henley^ 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY  :  Crossing  Nebraska,  (1879). 

I  am  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  cars  with  a  mill  party  from 
Missouri  going  west  for  his  health.  Desolate  flat  prairie  upon 
all  hands.  Here  and  there  a  herd  of  cattle ;  a  yellow  butter- 
fly or  two ;  a  patch  of  wild  sunflowers ;  a  wooden  house  or 
two ;  then  a  wooden  church  alone  in  miles  of  waste ;  then  a 
windmill  to  pump  water.  When  we  stop,  which  we  do  often, 
for  emigrants  and  freight  travel  together  —  the  kine  first,  the 
men  after  —  the  whole  plain  is  heard  singing  with  cicadse. 
This  is  a  pause,  as  you  may  see  from  the  writing.  What 
happened  to  the  old  pedestrian  emigrants,  what  was  the 
tedium  suffered  by  the  Indians  and  trappers  of  our  youth,  the 

1  From  The  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


STEVENSON   TO   HENLEY  115 

imagination  trembles  to  conceive.  This  is  now  Saturday,  23rd, 
and  I  have  been  steadily  traveling  since  I  parted  from  you  at 
St.  Pancras.  It  is  a  strange  vicissitude  from  the  Savile  Club 
to  this :  I  sleep  with  a  man  from  Pennsylvania  who  has  been 
in  the  States  navy,  and  mess  with  him  and  the  Missouri  bird 
already  alluded  to.  We  have  a  tin  wash-bowl  among  four. 
I  wear  nothing  but  a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  never 
button  my  shirt.  When  I  land  for  a  meal,  I  pass  my  coat 
and  feel  dressed.  This  life  is  to  last  till  Friday,  Saturday,  or 
Sunday  next.  It  is  a  strange  affair  to  be  an  emigrant,  as  I 
hope  you  shall  see  in  a  future  work.  I  wonder  if  this  will  be 
legible ;  my  present  station  on  the  wagon  roof,  though  airy 
compared  to  the  cars,  is  both  dirty  and  insecure.  I  can  see 
the  track  straight  before  and  straight  behind  me  to  either 
horizon.  Peace  of  mind  I  enjoy  with  extreme  serenity;  I 
am  doing  right;  I  know  no  one  will  think  so;  and  don't  care. 
My  body,  however,  is  all  to  whistles ;  I  don't  eat ;  but,  man,  I 
can  sleep.  The  car  in  front  of  mine  is  chock  full  of  Chinese. 

Monday.  What  it  is  to  be  ill  in  an  emigrant  train  let 
those  declare  who  know.  I  slept  none  till  late  in  the  morn- 
ing, overcome  with  laudanum,  of  which  I  had  luckily  a  little 
bottle.  All  to-day  I  have  eaten  nothing,  and  only  drunk  two 
cups  of  tea,  for  each  of  which,  on  the  pretext  that  the  one 
was  breakfast  and  the  other  dinner,  I  was  charged  fifty  cents. 
Our  journey  is  through  ghostly  deserts,  sage-brush  and  alkali, 
and  rocks  without  form  or  color,  a  sad  corner  of  the  world. 
I  confess  I  am  not  jolly,  but  mighty  calm,  in  my  distresses. 
My  illness  is  a  subject  of  great  mirth  to  some  of  my  fellow- 
travelers,  and  I  smile  rather  sickly  at  their  jests. 

We  are  going  along  Bitter  Creek  just  now,  a  place  infamous 
in  the  history  of  emigrants,  a  place  I  shall  remember  myself 
among  the  blackest.  I  hope  I  may  get  this  posted  at  Ogden, 
Utah. 

R.  L.  S. 


Il6  FITZGERALD   TO   TENNYSON 

LXXVIII 
R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Charles  Baxter^ 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco,  Jan.  26,  '80. 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES  : 

I  have  to  drop  from  a  5o-cent  to  a  2 5 -cent  dinner ;  to-day 
begins  my  fall.  That  brings  down  my  outlay  in  food  and 
drink  to  45  cents,  or  is.  io^d.  per  day.  How  are  the  mighty 
fallen  !  Luckily,  this  is  such  a  cheap  place  for  food;  I  used 
to  pay  as  much  as  that  for  my  first  breakfast  in  the  Savile 
in  the  grand  old  palmy  days  of  yore.  I  regret  nothing,  and 
do  not  even  dislike  these  straits,  though  the  flesh  will  rebel 
on  occasion.  It  is  to-day  bitter  cold,  after  weeks  of  lovely 
warm  weather,  and  I  am  all  in  a  chitter.  I  am  about  to  issue 
for  my  little  shilling  and  halfpenny  meal,  taken  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  the  poor  man's  hour ;  and  I  shall  eat  and  drink 
to  your  prosperity. 

Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 

LXXIX 

Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Frederic  Tennyson 

MY  DEAR  OLD  FREDERIC  :  Dec"  l88r' 

I  must  not  let  Christmas  and  the  Old  Year  pass  away  with- 
out a  loving  word  from  me.  You  know  that  I  have  but  little 
more  to  say,  for  I  have  seen  and  heard  less  all  this  year  than 
any  year  before,  I  think;  and  have  at  present  little  new  to 
report  of  my  own  personal  condition.  Let  me  hear  at  least 
as  much,  and  as  well,  of  yourself. 

I  wrote  to  Alfred  a  month  or  so  ago;  and  was  answered  — 
for  a  wonder  —  by  Hallam  from  Aldworth,  telling  me  that  all 

i  From  The  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


FITZGERALD   TO    TENNYSON  1 1/ 

were  pretty  well,  his  father  *  walking  and  working  as  usual.' 
They  —  Hallam  and  he  —  had  not  long  before  been  a  trip  to 
Stratford-on-Avon  and  Sherwood  Forest,  finding  the  latter  such 
a  piece  of  Old  England  as  Washington  Irving  had  described. 
I  suppose  they  went  before  that  October  gale  half  stripped  the 
trees,  even  the  oaks,  for  which  Sherwood  is  celebrated.  Per- 
haps, however,  the  gale  did  not  rage  there  as  hereabout  it  did 
—  blowing  down  four  of  the  best  of  my  few  trees.  And  another 
gale  about  a  month  ago  blew  down  palings,  and  even  wall,  for 
me.  You  can  tell  me  how  it  fared  with  you  in  Jersey,  from 
over  which  the  wind  came.  .  .  . 

I  suppose  that  you  in  Jersey  have  had  no  winter  yet;  for 
even  here  thrushes  pipe  a  little,  anemones  make  a  pale  show, 
and  I  can  sit  in  my  indoor  clothing  on  a  bench  without,  so 
long  as  the  sun  shines.  I  can  read  but  little,  and  count  of  my 
boy's  coming  at  night  to  read  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  some  travel 
or  biography,  that  amuses  him  as  well  as  me.  We  are  now 
beginning  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  which  I  had  not  expected  to 
care  for,  and  shall  possibly  weary  of  before  it  ends;  but  the 
outset  is  nothing  less  than  delightful  to  me.  I  think  that  Miss 
Austen,  George  Eliot,  and  Co.  have  not  yet  quite  extinguished 
him,  in  his  later  lights. 

Now,  my  dear  old  friend,  I  will  shut  up  shop  before  Christmas. 

Ah  !  I  sincerely  wish  you  were  here  ;  and  I  do  remain,  what 
for  so  many  years  I  have  been, 

Your  affectionate 

OLD  FITZ. 


Il8  BROOKS   TO   COOPER 

LXXX 
Edward  Fitzgerald  to  W.  F.  Pollock 

MY   DEAR    POLLOCK  :  Woodbridge,  October  20,  '82. 

Pray  let  me  hear  how  you  and  yours  are  after  your  summer 
holiday.  I  have  been  no  further  for  mine  than  Aldeburgh,  an 
hour's  distance  from  here ;  there  I  got  out  boating,  etc.,  and  I 
think  became  the  more  hearty  in  consequence ;  but  my  bosom 
friend  bronchitis  puts  in  a  reminder  every  now  and  then,  and, 
I  suppose,  will  come  out  of  his  closet,  or  chest,  when  winter 
sets  in. 

When  I  was  at  Aldeburgh,  Professor  Fawcett  .  .  .  came  to 
see  Aldis  Wright,  who  was  with  me  there  for  a  day.  When 
Wright  was  gone,  the  professor  came  to  smoke  a  pipe  —  in  his 
case  a  cigar  —  with  me.  What  a  brave,  unpretending  fellow  ! 
I  should  never  have  guessed  that  a  notable  man  in  any  way. 
'  Brave,'  too,  I  say,  because  of  his  cheerful  blindness,  for  which 
I  should  never  have  forgiven  my  father  and  his  gun.  To  see 
him  stalking  along  the  beach  regardless  of  pebble  and  boulder, 
though  with  some  one  by  his  side  to  prevent  his  going  quite 
to  sea  !  He  was  on  the  eve  of  starting  for  Scotland  —  in  the 
dear  Tweed,  I  think ;  though  he  scarce  seemed  to  know  much 
of  Sir  Walter. 

LXXXI 

Phillips  Brooks  to  Charles  D.  Cooper 

DEAR   COOPER  •  Chedambaram,  February  22nd,  1883. 

In  case  you  do  not  know  where  Chedambaram  is,  I  will  tell 
you  that  it  is  just  ten  miles  from  Vaithisvarankoil,  and  it  is 
hotter  than  Philadelphia  in  fly-time.  I  have  been  celebrating 
the  birthday  of  Mr.  Washington  by  firing  off  bottles  of  soda 
water  all  the  morning,  ever  since  we  came  in  from  our  early 


BROOKS    TO   COOPER  1 19 

visit  to  the  wonderful  pagoda,  which  is  the  marvel  of  this  beau- 
tiful heathen  town.  The  only  way  to  see  things  here  in  South- 
ern India  is  to  start  at  daybreak,  when  the  country  is  cool,  and 
lovelier  than  anything  you  can  imagine.  The  palm-trees  are 
waving  in  the  early  breeze.  The  elephants  go  crushing  along 
with  painted  trunks  and  gilded  tusks.  The  pretty  Hindu  girls 
are  drawing  water  at  the  wells  under  the  banana  groves.  The 
naked  children  are  frolicking  in  the  dust  of  the  bazaars.  The 
old  men  and  women  are  drinking  their  early  cocoanut,  and 
you  jolt  along  on  the  straw  in  your  creaking  bullock-cart,  as 
jolly  as  a  rajah.  So  we  went  this  morning  to  do  homage  to 
the  false  gods.  Vishnu  had  gone  off  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  his 
shrine  was  empty,  but  Siva  was  at  home,  and  the  howling  dev- 
otees were  in  the  middle  of  the  morning  service.  They  must 
have  been  about  at  the  second  lesson  when  we  arrived,  but, 
owing  to  the  peculiar  character  of  their  language,  it  was  not 
easy  to  make  out  just  what  stage  of  the  morning  exercises  they 
had  reached.  But  it  did  n't  much  matter,  for  immediately  on 
our  arrival  the  worship  stopped  where  it  was,  and  the  offici- 
ating clergyman  came  forward  and  ridiculously  presented  us 
with  a  lime  each,  and  then  tried  to  put  a  garland  of  flowers 
about  our  Christian  necks.  This  last  attention  I  refused,  with 
indignation  at  his  making  a  heathen  so  summarily  out  of  a 
respectable  presbyter  of  the  P.  E.  Church  from  Bishop  Pad- 
dock's diocese.  He  gracefully  intimated  that  he  did  n't  mind 
my  being  mad,  but  would  pocket  the  insult  —  or  do  whatever 
a  fellow  does  who  has  no  pocket,  or  indeed  anything  else 
except  a  dirty  rag  about  his  loins  —  provided  I  gave  him  the 
rupee  which  he  expected,  all  the  same.  While  I  was  doing  this 
there  was  a  noise  like  seven  pandemoniums  outside,  and  soon 
in  through  the  gate  came  a  wild  crowd  of  savages  yelling  like 
fiends,  and  carrying  on  their  shoulders  a  great  platform,  on 
which  was  a  big  brass  idol,  all  daubed  with  grease  and  hung 


120  BROOKS   TO    COOPER 

with  flowers.  This  was  Vishnu,  just  returned  from  his  sea-bath, 
and  in  front  of  him  came  the  craziest  band  of  music,  made  up 
of  lunatics  banging  on  tom-toms,  and  screeching  away  on  bra- 
zen trumpets  three  feet  long.  We  saw  the  ugly  divinity  safe 
in  his  shrine,  and  left  the  pagans  yelling  in  their  joy  at  getting 
their  ugly  image  safely  home. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  blazing,  as  I  said,  and  we  came 
home  to  the  bungalow  which  does  duty  for  a  tavern,  and  set  a 
small  Hindu  to  pulling  away  at  a  punkah  rope  at  the  cost  of 
three  cents  a  day.  Then  we  cut  up  our  sacred  limes,  and  poured 
soda  water  on  the  juice  of  them,  and  made  a  drink  which  I 
advise  you  to  try  if  ever  you  have  to  spend  a  hot  day  in  Ched- 
ambaram.  Then  we  breakfasted  on  rice  and  curry  and  fried 
bananas,  and  then  I  thought  I  would  write  to  you,  and  send 
you  my  blessing  out  of  the  depths  of  this  Hindu  darkness. 

I  can't  tell  you  what  a  delightful  thing  this  Indian  trip  has 
been.  From  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas  down  to  these  burn- 
ing and  luxuriant  tropics,  from  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the 
exquisite  Taj  of  the  Mohammedan  Emperor  at  Agra  down  to 
the  grotesque  splendor  of  this  great  Brahmin  sanctuary  which 
we  have  seen  to-day,  everything  has  been  fascinating.  Oh, 
if  you  and  McVickar  and  George  Strong  had  been  with  me  all 
the  way  !  I  have  had  a  pleasant  young  companion,  who  has 
behaved  beautifully  except  when  he  got  the  smallpox  in  Delhi, 
and  kept  us  there  two  weeks.  But  Delhi  is,  after  all,  the  most 
interesting  place  in  India,  and  if  he  was  going  to  do  it  he  could 
not  have  chosen  a  better  place.  We  were  guests  there  of  some 
fine  young  English  missionaries,  who  behaved  splendidly  under 
the  affliction  which  we  brought  down  upon  them,  and  I  went 
about  with  them  and  saw  the  ins  and  outs  of  missionary  life, 
which,  when  the  right  men  are  at  it,  is  a  splendid  thing. 

The  hot  season  has  set  in  within  the  last  few  days,  and  we 
must  be  away,  but  I  shall  leave  these  gentle  Hindus  and  their 


LEWIS   CARROLL  TO    MRS.  HARGREAVES      121 

lovely  land  with  regret.  Now  we  are  on  our  way  to  Ceylon, 
and  two  weeks  from  to-day  we  sail  from  Colombo  back  to  Suez, 
and  then  comes  Spain. 

Are  you  right  well,  old  fellow,  and  does  the  dear  old  study 
look  just  the  way  it  used  to  do,  and  are  you  counting  as  much 
as  I  am  the  time  when  we  shall  meet  again  there  at  General 
Convention,  and  talk  it  all  over,  and  abuse  the  —  — s  in  the 
dear  old  way? 

Ever  and  ever  yours, 

P.  B. 

LXXXII 
Lewis  Carroll  to  Mrs.  Hargreaves 

Christ  Church,  December  21,  1883. 
DEAR  MRS.  HARGREAVES  : 

Perhaps  the  shortest  day  in  the  year  is  not  quite  the  most 
appropriate  time  for  recalling  the  long  dreamy  summer  after- 
noons of  ancient  times ;  but,  anyhow,  if  this  book  gives  you 
half  as  much  pleasure  to  receive  as  it  does  me  to  send,  it  will 
be  a  success  indeed. 

Wishing  you  all  happiness  at  this  happy  season,  I  am 
Sincerely  yours, 

C.  L.  DODGSON. 

LXXXIII 
James  R.  Lowell  to  C.  E.  Norton  * 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Sept.  n,  1885. 

...  I  got  home  safely,  bearing  constantly  in  mind  our  mod- 
ern version  of  the  Spartan  mother's  parting  words  to  her  son 
—  '  with  your  portmanteau,  or  on  it '  —  for,  as  I  had  a  special 
check  and  a  very  complicated  ticket,  I  felt  myself  walking  in 

1  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


122  LOWELL  TO    NORTON 

a  series  of  pitfalls  and  ambushes,  where  every  baggage-smasher 
was  a  secret  foe.  I  waited  three  hours  at  Fitchburg,  and 
whiled  away  my  time  by  eating  a  very  durable  substitute  for 
what  is  elsewhere  called  a  beefsteak,  and  in  visiting  the  prin- 
cipal objects  of  interest,  including  the  cathedral  and  picture- 
galleries.  I  saw  also  several  sign-boards  which  promised  well 
for  the  future  of  Fitchburgian  art. 

My  hills  here  in  Southborough  I  found  lower  than  I  left 
them,  but  they  are  growing  daily,  and  will  be  as  tall  as  ever 
in  a  few  days.  I  find  I  was  right  in  falling  so  deeply  in  love 
with  the  'June  grass.'  We  have  it  here,  as  I  thought,  but  it 
hasn't  the  same  fine  effects  of  color.  I  can't  account  for  it, 
but  the  fact  is  so.  Nature  has  these  partialities,  and  makes 
no  scruple  of  showing  them.  But  we  do  very  well,  all  the 
same.  I  climbed  one  of  my  hills  yesterday  afternoon,  and 
took  a  sip  of  Wachusett,  who  was  well  content  that  Monad- 
nock  was  out  of  the  way.  How  lucky  our  mountains  —  many 
of  them  —  are  in  their  names,  though  they  must  find  it  hard 
to  live  up  to  them  sometimes  !  The  Anglo-Saxon  sponsor 
would  Nicodemus  'em  to  nothing  in  no  time. 

I  found  a  bushel  of  cold  letters  awaiting  me  here,  and  I 
have  spent  most  of  my  time  with  my  hands  across,  gazing  in 
despair  at  the  outside  of  them.  I  am  thinking  seriously  of 
getting  a  good  forger  from  the  State's  Prison  to  do  my  auto- 
graphs, but  I  suppose  the  unconvicted  followers  of  the  same 
calling  would  raise  the  cry  of  convict  labor.  Ashfield  would 
be  perfect,  but  that  it  has  a  post-office.  That  fly  would  cor- 
rupt a  pot  of  ointment  as  the  cup  of  her  horizon.  .  .  . 


STEVENSON   TO   COLVIN  123 

LXXXIV 

R.  L.  Stevenson  to  his  Mother^- 


MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  British  Muse"m>  (August  ">> 

We  are  having  a  capital  holiday,  and  I  am  much  better, 
and  enjoying  myself  to  the  nines.  Richmond  is  painting  my 
portrait.  To-day  I  lunch  with  him,  and  meet  Burne-Jones  ; 
to-night  Browning  dines  with  us.  That  sounds  rather  lofty 
work,  does  it  not?  His  path  was  paved  with  celebrities. 
To-morrow  we  leave  for  Paris,  and  next  week,  I  suppose,  or 
the  week  after,  come  home.  Address  here,  as  we  may  not 
reach  Paris.  I  am  really  very  well. 

Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  S. 

LXXXV 

R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin1 

Yacht  Casco,  Anaho  Bay,  Nukahiva 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN  :  Marquesas  Islands  (July,  1888). 

From  this  somewhat  —  ahem  !  —  out-of-the-way  place  I  write 
to  say  *  How  d'  ye  do?  '  It  is  all  a  swindle  :  I  chose  these  isles 
as  having  the  most  beastly  population,  and  they  are  far  better 
and  far  more  civilized  than  we.  I  know  one  old  chief  Ko-o- 
amua,  a  great  cannibal  in  his  day,  who  ate  his  enemies  even 
as  he  walked  home  from  killing  'em,  and  he  is  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman, and  exceedingly  amiable  and  simple-minded  ;  no  fool, 
though. 

The  climate  is  delightful,  and  the  harbor  where  we  lie 
one  of  the  loveliest  spots  imaginable.  Yesterday  evening  we 

1  From  The  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


124  STEVENSON   TO   ARCHER 

had  near  a  score  of  natives  on  board ;  lovely  parties.  We 
have  a  native  god ;  very  rare  now.  Very  rare,  and  equally 
absurd  to  view. 

This  sort  of  work  is  not  favorable  to  correspondence :  it 
takes  me  all  the  little  strength  I  have  to  go  about  and  see, 
and  then  come  home  and  note,  the  strangeness  around  us. 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  there  came  trouble  here  some  day,  all 
the  same.  I  could  name  a  nation  that  is  not  beloved  in  cer- 
tain islands  —  and  it  does  not  know  it !  Strange  ;  like  our- 
selves, perhaps,  in  India !  Love  to  all,  and  much  to  yourself. 

R.  L.  S. 

LXXXVI 
R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Tom  Archer^ 

Tautira,  Island  of  Tahiti,  (November,  1888). 
DEAR  TOMARCHER  : 

This  is  a  pretty  state  of  things !  seven  o'clock  and  no  word 
of  breakfast !  and  I  was  awake  a  good  deal  last  night,  for  it 
was  full  moon,  and  they  had  made  a  great  fire  of  cocoanut 
husks  down  by  the  sea,  and,  as  we  have  no  blinds  or  shutters, 
this  kept  my  room  very  bright.  And  then  the  rats  had  a  wed- 
ding or  a  school-feast  under  my  bed.  And  then  I  woke  early, 
and  I  have  nothing  to  read  except  Virgil's  sEneid,  which  is  not 
good  fun  on  an  empty  stomach,  and  a  Latin  dictionary,  which 
is  good  for  naught,  and,  by  some  humorous  accident,  your  dear 
papa's  article  on  Skerryvore.  And  I  read  the  whole  of  that, 
and  very  impudent  it  is,  but  you  must  not  tell  your  dear  papa 
I  said  so,  or  it  might  come  to  a  battle  in  which  you  might  lose 
either  a  dear  papa  or  a  valued  correspondent,  or  both,  which 
would  be  prodigal.  And  still  no  breakfast ;  so  I  said,  '  Let 's 
write  to  Tomarcher.' 

l  From  The  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


STEVENSON   TO   ARCHER  125 

This  is  a  much  better  place  for  children  than  any  I  have 
hitherto  seen  in  these  seas.  The  girls  —  and  sometimes  the 
boys  —  play  a  very  elaborate  kind  of  hop-scotch.  The  boys 
play  horses  exactly  as  we  do  in  Europe,  and  have  very  good 
fun  on  stilts,  trying  to  knock  each  other  down,  in  which  they 
do  not  often  succeed.  The  children  of  all  ages  go  to  church, 
and  are  allowed  to  do  what  they  please,  running  about  the 
aisles,  rolling  balls,  stealing  mamma's  bonnet  and  publicly 
sitting  on  it,  and  at  last  going  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  whips  to  play  horses,  and  the 
balls  to  roll  about  the  church  « —  at  least  I  never  saw  them  used 
elsewhere  —  grow  ready-made  on  trees ;  which  is  rough  on  toy- 
shops. The  whips  are  so  good  that  I  wanted  to  play  horses 
myself ;  but  no  such  luck !  my  hair  is  gray,  and  I  am  a  great, 
big,  ugly  man.  The  balls  are  rather  hard,  but  very  light  and 
quite  round.  When  you  grow  up  and  become  offensively  rich, 
you  can  charter  a  ship  in  the  port  of  London,  and  have  it 
come  back  to  you  entirely  loaded  with  these  balls ;  when  you 
could  satisfy  your  mind  as  to  their  character,  and  give  them 
away,  when  done  with,  to  your  uncles  and  aunts.  But  what 
I  really  wanted  to  tell  you  was  this :  besides  the  treetop  toys 
—  Hushaby,  toy-shop,  on  the  treetop  !  —  I  have  seen  some 
real  made  toys,  the  first  hitherto  observed  in  the  South  Seas. 

This  was  how.  You  are  to  imagine  a  four-wheeled  gig ;  one 
horse ;  in  the  front  seat  two  Tahiti  natives  in  their  Sunday 
clothes :  blue  coat,  white  shirt,  kilt  —  a  little  longer  than  the 
Scotch  —  of  a  blue  stuff  with  big  white  or  yellow  flowers,  legs 
and  feet  bare ;  in  the  back  seat  me  and  my  wife,  who  is  a 
friend  of  yours ;  under  our  feet  plenty  of  lunch  and  things ; 
among  us  a  great  deal  of  fun  in  broken  Tahitian,  one  of  the 
natives,  the  subchief  of  the  village,  being  a  great  ally  of  mine. 
Indeed  we  have  exchanged  names,  so  that  he  is  now  called 
Rui,  the  nearest  they  can  come  to  Louis,  for  they  have  no  /  and 


126  STEVENSON   TO   ARCHER 

no  s  in  their  language.  Rui  is  six  feet  three  in  his  stockings, 
and  a  magnificent  man.  We  all  have  straw  hats,  for  the  sun 
is  strong.  We  drive  between  the  sea,  which  makes  a  great 
noise,  and  the  mountains ;  the  road  is  cut  through  a  forest 
mostly  of  fruit-trees  —  the  very  creepers,  which  take  the  place 
of  our  ivy,  heavy  with  a  great  and  delicious  fruit,  bigger  than 
your  head  and  far  nicer,  called  Barbedine.  Presently  we  came 
to  a  house  in  a  pretty  garden,  quite  by  itself,  very  nicely  kept, 
the  doors  and  windows  open,  no  one  about,  and  no  noise  but 
that  of  the  sea.  It  looked  like  a  house  in  a  fairy  tale,  and 
just  beyond  we  must  ford  a  river,  and  there  we  saw  the  inhab- 
itants. Just  in  the  mouth  of  the  river,  where  it  met  the  sea 
waves,  they  were  ducking  and  bathing  and  screaming  together 
like  a  covey  of  birds  :  seven  or  eight  little  naked  brown  boys 
and  girls  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long ;  and  on  the  banks  of 
the  stream  beside  them,  real  toys  —  toy  ships,  full  rigged,  and 
with  their  sails  set,  though  they  were  lying  in  the  dust  on  their 
beam  ends.  And  then  I  knew  for  sure  they  were  all  children 
in  a  fairy  story,  living  alone  together  in  that  lonely  house  with 
the  only  toys  in  all  the  island ;  and  that  I  had  myself  driven, 
in  my  four-wheeled  gig,  into  a  corner  of  the  fairy  story ;  and 
the  next  jolt  the  whole  thing  vanished,  and  we  drove  on  in  our 
seaside  forest  as  before,  and  I  have  the  honor  to  be  Tom- 
archer's  valued  correspondent,  Teriitera,  which  he  was  previ- 
ously known  as 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


LOWELL  TO   THE    MISSES    LAWRENCE        127 

LXXXVII 
James  R.  Lowell  to  the  Misses  Lawrence  * 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Jan.  2,  1890. 

.  .  .  Here  I  am  again  in  the  house  where  I  was  born  longer 
ago  than  you  can  remember,  though  I  wish  you  more  New 
Year's  days  than  I  have  had.  'T  is  a  pleasant  old  house  just 
about  twice  as  old  as  I  am,  four  miles  from  Boston,  in  what 
was  once  the  country,  and  is  now  a  populous  suburb.  But  it 
still  has  some  ten  acres  of  open  about  it,  and  some  fine  old 
trees.  When  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  —  if  I  live  so  long 
—  I  shall  still  have  four  and  a  half  acres  left  with  the  house, 
the  rest  belonging  to  my  brothers  and  sisters  or  their  heirs. 
It  is  a  square  house  with  four  rooms  on  a  floor,  like  some 
houses  of  the  Georgian  era  I  have  seen  in  English  provincial 
towns,  only  they  are  of  brick  and  this  of  wood.  But  it  is  solid 
with  its  heavy  oaken  beams,  the  spaces  between  which  in  the 
four  outer  walls  are  filled  in  with  brick,  though  you  mustn't 
fancy  a  brick-and- timber  house,  for  outwardly  it  is  sheathed 
with  wood.  Inside  there  is  much  wainscot  —  of  deal  — 
painted  white  in  the  fashion  of  the  time  when  it  was  built. 
It  is  very  sunny,  the  sun  rising  so  as  to  shine  —  at  an  acute 
angle,  to  be  sure  —  through  the  northern  windows,  and  going 
round  the  other  sides  in  the  course  of  the  day.  There  is  a 
pretty  staircase  with  the  quaint  old  twisted  banisters  —  which 
they  call  balusters  now,  but  mine  are  banisters.  My  library 
occupies  two  rooms,  opening  into  each  other  by  arches  at  the 
sides  of  the  ample  chimneys.  The  trees  I  look  out  on  are  the 
earliest  things  I  remember.  There  you  have  me  in  my  new-old 
quarters.  But  you  must  not  fancy  a  large  house  —  rooms  six- 
teen feet  square,  and,  on  the  ground  floor,  nine  high.  It  was 

1  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


128         LOWELL  TO   THE    MISSES    LAWRENCE 

large,  as  things  went  here,  when  it  was  built,  and  has  a  certain 
air  of  amplitude  about  it,  as  from  some  inward  sense  of  dignity. 

Now  for  out-of-doors.  What  do  you  suppose  the  thermom- 
eter is  about  on  this  second  day  of  January?  I  was  going 
to  say  he  was  standing  on  his  head  —  at  any  rate  he  has  for- 
gotten what  he  's  about,  and  is  marking  sixty-three  degrees 
Fahrenheit  on  the  north  side  of  the  house  and  in  the  shade  ! 
Where  is  that  sense  of  propriety  that  once  belonged  to  the 
seasons?  This  is  flat  communism,  January  insisting  on  going 
halves  with  May.  News  I  have  none,  nor  other  resources,  as 
you  see,  save  those  of  the  special  correspondent,  who  takes  to 
description  when  events  fail.  Yes,  I  have  one  event.  I  dine 
to-night  with  Mr.  R.  C.  Winthrop,  who  remembers  your  father 
very  well  nearly  sixty  years  ago. 

I  have  all  my  grandchildren  with  me,  five  of  them,  and  the 
eldest  boy  is  already  conspiring  with  a  beard  !  It  is  awful, 
this  stealthy  advance  of  Time's  insupportable  foot.  There  are 
two  ponies  for  the  children,  and  two  dogs,  bull- turners,  and 
most  amiable  creatures.  This  is  my  establishment,  and  four 
of  the  weans  have  had  the  grippe.  I  remember  it  here  in  '31, 
I  think  it  was.  You  see  I  make  all  I  can  of  age's  one  privilege 
—  that  of  having  a  drearier  memory  than  other  folks. 

I  forgot  one  thing.  There  are  plenty  of  mice  in  the  walls, 
and,  now  that  I  can't  go  to  the  play  with  you,  I  assist  at  their 
little  tragedies  and  comedies  behind  the  wainscot  in  the  night 
hours,  and  build  up  plots  in  my  fancy.  'T  is  a  French  com- 
pany, for  I  hear  them  distinctly  say  '  wee,  wee,'  sometimes.  My 
life,  you  see,  is  not  without  its  excitements,  and  what  are  your 
London  mice  doing  that  is  more  important?  I  see  you  are  to 
have  a  Parnell  scandal  at  last,  but  I  overheard  an  elopement 
the  other  night  behind  the  wainscot,  and  the  solicitors  talking 
it  over  with  the  desolated  husband  afterwards.  It  was  very 
exciting.  Ten  thousand  grains  of  corn  damages  ! 


MISS    STARR  TO   SIDNEY 129 

Good-by,  and  take  care  of  yourselves  till  I  come  with  the 
daffodils.  I  wish  you  both  many  a  happy  New  Year,  and  a 
share  for  me  in  some  of  them.  Poets  seem  to  live  long  now- 
adays, and  I,  too,  live  in  Arcadia  after  my  own  fashion. 

Affectionately  yours,    . 

J.  R.  L. 

LXXXVIII 
Ellen  G.  Starr1  to  Sidney .2 


,  ,     T-.  Hull  House.  Chicago,  October  10.  1004. 

MY  DEAR  SIDNEY  : 

It  is  usually  considered  sufficient  to  write  to  the  mother  of 
the  family  and  thank  her  for  one's  pleasant  visit,  but  mine  was 
so  unusually  pleasant  that  it  does  not  seem  too  much  to  thank 
everybody  separately.  I  began  with  the  ladies,  and  now  I  have 
come  to  you.  Tell  Papa  that  I  am  even  going  to  include  him 
in  time. 

Your  family  arranges  itself  in  a  sort  of  symmetry,  however  it 
is  set.  I  am  moving  you  about  in  my  mind  now,  and  making 
pictures  of  you,  as  Mildred  does  of  her  king  and  queen,  knights 
and  bishops,  on  the  chess-board.  Probably  you  do,  too.  A  boy 
who  makes  real  knight's  shields  could  hardly  help  it.  You  might 
some  time  decorate  a  room  with  a  border  of  different  shields. 
I  have  just  thought  of  that.  Of  course  you  can  draw  a  shield, 
since  you  can  cut  one  out  of  wood  and  zinc.  And  as  you 
have  a  heraldry  book,  you  can  make  drawings  of  all  the  devices 
which  particularly  please  you,  or  belong  to  knights  and  heroes 
you  particularly  like.  When  you  have  a  good  many,  you  can 
arrange  them  by  some  system,  either  according  to  time  or 
according  to  shape  and  color,  or  both.  And  when  you  have 

1  Co-founder,  with  Jane  Addams,  of  Hull  House.  —  EDS. 

2  A  boy  of  twelve.  —  EDS. 


130  MISS   STARR  TO   SIDNEY 

a  room  in  which  you  can  do  as  you  please,  as  you  will  have, 
doubtless,  when  you  are  a  little  older,  you  can  have  a  perfectly 
delightful  time  —  or,  as  a  young  gentleman  friend  of  mine 
expresses  it,  <  a  very  perfect  time  ' —  painting  the  frieze.  I  can 
quite  see  you  on  a  ladder,  doing  it.  I  should  not  be  in  haste 
about  it  (beginning  the  frieze),  even  if  the  idea  pleases  you. 
It  will  take  some  time  to  paint  enough  shields.  One  rather 
good  way  would  be  to  do  them  on  separate  pieces  of  card- 
board of  uniform  height,  and  then  they  could,  if  it  seemed 
best,  be  fastened  in  place  when  you  have  enough.  Perhaps  it 
can  be  done  at  Greensboro ;  and  I  might  be  able  to  help  you 
if  I  go  there  to  visit  you  next  summer.  I  should  learn  a  great 
deal,  of  course,  for  you  would  know  all  about  the  knights,  fam- 
ilies, towns,  cathedrals,  and  what  not,  that  the  various  devices 
belong  to.  Really,  I  am  becoming  quite  insistent  on  your 
making  this  contribution  to  my  education.  The  frieze  would 
look  very  nice  in  a  room  with  a  plain  wash  of  some  sort.  All 
the  pictures,  casts,  and  so  forth,  of  persons  and  buildings  or 
places  connected  with  the  frieze,  you  could  put  into  the  room. 
I  have  a  — . 

October  30.  Fancy  !  Twenty  days  ago  this  letter  was  begun  ! 
I  thought  two  sheets  would  certainly  hold  what  I  was  moved 
to  say  to  you  at  the  first  writing,  but  you  see  it  did  not.  The 
room  with  the  frieze  grows  in  my  imagination.  All  the  pic- 
tures, casts,  and  so  forth,  of  the  personages,  families,  and  so 
on,  represented,  which  people  give  you,  you  could  put  into  it. 
I  have  a  friend  —  I  think  that  is  what  I  was  about  to  say 
twenty  days  ago  —  who  has  a  passion  for  everything  relating 
to  Jeanne  d'Arc,  and  his  friends  renounce  all  their  treasures 
pertaining  to  that  subject  in  his  favor.  Naturally  he  knows  all 
there  is  to  be  known  about  Jeanne  d'Arc.  Perhaps  he  '  knows 
some  things  that  are  not  so,'  but  even  that  gives  him  intense 
pleasure. 


MISS    STARR   TO   SIDNEY 131 

If  I  keep  on,  I  shall  write  a  book ;  and  then,  should  you 
ever  turn  my  enemy l  —  which  all  the  guardian  angels  pre- 
vent !  — you  will  have  me  on  the  hip.2  Ask  Mildred  where  that 
expression  came  from. 

Yours  affectionately, 

ELLEN  G.  STARR. 

1  No  doubt  with  allusion  to  Job  31.  35  (Auth.  Vers.).  —  EDS. 

2  See,  for  example,  Mer.  of  Ven.  i.  3.  47 ;  Oth.  2.  i.  314.  —  EDS. 


APPENDIX 


133 


APPENDIX 

i 

Cicero  to  his  Wife  and  Family  in  Rome 

Thessalonica,  B.C.  58. 

I  send  this,  my  dear  Terentia,  with  much  love  to  you,  and 
my  little  Tullia,  and  my  Marcus. 

I  hope  you  will  never  think  that  I  write  longer  letters  to 
other  people,  unless  it  so  happens  that  any  one  has  written  to 
me  about  a  number  of  matters  that  seem  to  require  an  answer. 
In  fact,  I  have  nothing  to  say,  nor  is  there  anything  just  now 
that  I  find  more  difficult.  But  to  you  and  my  dear  little  girl 
I  cannot  write  without  shedding  many  tears  when  I  picture 
to  myself  as  plunged  in  the  deepest  affliction,  you  whom  my 
dearest  wish  has  been  to  see  perfectly  happy ;  and  this  I  ought 
to  have  secured  for  you ;  yes,  and  I  would  have  secured,  but 
for  our  being  all  so  faint-hearted.1 

I  am  most  grateful  to  our  friend  Piso  2  for  his  kind  services. 
I  did  my  best  to  urge  that  he  would  not  forget  you  when  I  was 
writing  to  him,  and  have  now  thanked  him  as  in  duty  bound. 
I  gather  that  you.  think  there  is  hope  of  the  new  tribunes ; 
that  will  be  a  safe  thing  to  depend  on  if  we  may  on  the  pro- 
fession of  Pompeius,  but  I  have  my  fears  of  Crassus.  It  is 
true  I  see  that  everything  on  your  part  is  done  both  bravely  and 
lovingly,  nor  does  that  surprise  me ;  but  what  pains  me  is  that 

l  Cicero  was  at  this  time  in  exile.  —  EDS.  2  Tullia's  husband.  —  EDS. 

135 


136          CICERO   TO    HIS   WIFE   AND   FAMILY 

it  should  be  my  fate  to  expose  you  to  such  severe  suffering 
to  relieve  my  own.  For  Publius  Valerius,  who  has  been  most 
attentive,  wrote  me  word,  and  it  cost  me  many  tears  in  the 
reading,  how  you  had  been  forced  to  go  from  the  temple  of 
Vesta l  to  the  Valerian  office.2  Alas,  my  light,  my  love,  whom 
all  used  once  to  look  up  to  for  relief !  —  that  you,  my 
Terentia,  should  be  treated  thus;  that  you  should  be  thus 
plunged  in  tears  and  misery,  and  all  through  my  fault !  I 
have  indeed  preserved  others,  only  for  me  and  mine  to  perish. 
As  to  what  you  say  about  our  house  —  or  rather  its  site  —  I 
for  my  part  shall  consider  my  restoration  to  be  complete  only 
when  I  find  that  it  has  been  restored  to  me.  But  these  things 
are  not  in  our  hands ;  what  troubles  me  is  that  in  the  outlay 
which  must  be  incurred,  you,  unhappy  and  impoverished  as 
you  are,  must  necessarily  share.  However,  if  we  succeed  in  our 
object,  I  shall  recover  everything ;  but  then,  if  ill  fortune  con- 
tinues to  persecute  us,  are  you,  my  poor  dear,  to  be  allowed 
to  throw  away  what  you  may  have  saved  from  the  wreck?  As 
to  my  expenses,  I  entreat  you,  my  dearest  life,  to  let  other 
people,  who  can  do  so  perfectly  if  they  will,  relieve  you ;  and 
be  sure,  as  you  love  me,  not  to  let  your  anxiety  injure  your 
health,  which  you  know  is  so  delicate.  Night  and  day  you 
are  always  before  my  eyes  !  I  can  see  you  making  every 
exertion  on  my  behalf,  and  I  fear  you  may  not  be  able  to  bear 
it.  But  I  know  well  that  all  our  hopes  are  in  you ;  so  be  care- 
ful of  your  health,  that  we  may  be  successful  in  what  you  hope 
and  are  working  for.  As  far  as  I  know,  there  is  nobody  I 
ought  to  write  to  except  those  who  write  to  me,  or  these 
whom  you  mention  in  your  letters.  Since  you  prefer  it,  I  will 

1  Terentia  had  probably  taken  refuge,  during  the  trouble  attendant  and  con- 
sequent upon  her  husband's  exile,  with  her  half-sister  Fabia,  a  vestal  virgin.  — 
EDS. 

2  Probably  a  bank  or  registry  office,  where  Terentia  had  been  compelled  to  go 
to  give  information  about  Cicero's  property.  —  EDS. 


PLINY   TO    FUSCUS  137 

not  move  any  further  from  here,  but  I  hope  you  will  write  to 
me  as  often  as  possible,  especially  if  we  have  any  surer  grounds 
for  hoping.  Good-by,  my  darlings,  good- by. 


II 
Pliny  to  Fuscus  * 

You  ask  me  how  I  spend  the  day  at  my  Tuscan  villa  in 
summer-time.  Well,  I  wake  at  my  own  sweet  will,  usually 
about  the  first  hour,  though  it  is  often  before,  and  rarely  later. 
I  keep  my  windows  shut,  for  it  is  remarkable  how,  when  all  is 
still  and  in  darkness,  and  I  am  withdrawn  from  all  distracting 
influences  and  am  left  to  myself,  and  free  to  do  what  I  like, 
my  thoughts  are  not  led  by  my  eyes,  but  my  eyes  by  my 
thoughts  ;  and  so  my  eyes,  when  they  have  nothing  else  to  look 
at,  only  see  the  objects  which  are  present  before  my  mind. 
If  I  have  anything  on  hand,  I  think  it  over,  and  weigh  every 
word  as  carefully  as  though  I  were  actually  writing  or  revising, 
and  in  this  way  I  get  through  more  or  less  work,  according  as 
the  subject  is  easy  or  difficult  to  compose  and  bear  in  mind. 
I  call  for  a  shorthand  writer,  and,  after  letting  in  the  daylight, 
I  dictate  the  passage  which  I  have  composed ;  then  he  leaves 
me,  and  I  send  for  him  again,  and  once  again  dismiss  him. 

At  the  fourth  or  fifth  hour,  according  as  the  weather  tempts 
me  —  for  I  have  no  fixed  and  settled  plan  for  the  day  —  I 
betake  myself  to  my  terrace  or  covered  portico,  and  there 
again  I  resume  my  thinking  and  dictating.  I  ride  in  my  car- 
riage, and  still  continue  my  mental  occupation,  just  as  when  I 
am  walking  or  lying  down.  My  concentration  of  thought  is 
unaffected,  or  rather  is  refreshed  by  the  change.  Then  I 
snatch  a  brief  sleep,  and  again  walk,  and  afterwards  read  aloud 
l  About  108  A.D.  —  EDS. 


138  PLINY    TO   THE   EMPEROR  TRAJAN 

a  Greek  or  Latin  speech,  as  clearly  and  distinctly  as  I  can, 
not  so  much  to  exercise  the  vocal  organs  as  to  help  my  diges- 
tion, though  it  does  at  the  same  time  strengthen  my  voice.  I 
take  another  walk,  then  I  am  anointed,  and  take  exercise  and 
a  bath.  While  I  am  at  dinner,  if  I  am  dining  with  my  wife  or 
a  few  friends,  a  book  is  read  to  us,  and  afterwards  we  hear  a 
comic  actor  or  a  musician ;  then  I  walk  with  my  attendants, 
some  of  whom  are  men  of  learning.  Thus  the  evening  is 
passed  away  with  talk  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  and  even  the 
longest  day  is  soon  done. 

Sometimes  I  vary  this  routine,  for,  if  I  have  been  lying 
down,  or  walking  for  any  length  of  time,  as  soon  as  I  have  had 
my  sleep  and  read  aloud,  I  ride  on  horseback  instead  of  in  a 
carriage,  as  it  takes  less  time,  and  one  gets  over  the  ground 
faster.  My  friends  come  in  from  the  neighboring  towns  to  see 
me,  and  monopolize  part  of  the  day,  and  occasionally  when  I 
am  tired  I  welcome  their  call  as  a  pleasant  relief.  Sometimes 
I  go  hunting,  but  never  without  my  tablets,  so  that  though  I 
may  take  no  game,  I  still  have  something  to  bring  back  with 
me.  Part  of  my  time,  too,  is  given  to  my  tenants  —  though 
in  their  opinion  not  enough  —  and  their  clownish  complaints 
give  me  a  fresh  zest  for  my  literary  work  and  my  round  of 
engagements  in  town.  Farewell. 


Ill 

Pliny  to  the  Emperor  Trajan1 

It  is  my  custom,  Sire,  to  refer  to  you  in  all  cases  when  I  do 
not  feel  sure,  for  who  can  better  direct  my  doubts  or  inform 
my  ignorance?  I  have  never  been  present  at  any  legal 

1  This  is  one  of  the  letters  written  to  Trajan  while  Pliny  was  governor  of 
the  province  of  Bithynia,  in  or  112  A.D.  —  EDS. 


PLINY  TO   THE   EMPEROR  TRAJAN  139 

examination  of  the  Christians,  and  I  do  not  know,  therefore, 
what  are  the  usual  penalties  passed  upon  them,  or  the  limits  of 
those  penalties,  or  how  searching  an  inquiry  should  be  made. 
I  have  hesitated  a  great  deal  in  considering  whether  any  dis- 
tinctions should  be  drawn  according  to  the  ages  of  the  accused  ; 
whether  the  weak  should  be  punished  as  severely  as  the  more 
robust;  whether  if  they  renounce  their  faith  they  should  be 
pardoned,  or  whether  the  man  who  has  once  been  a  Christian 
should  gain  nothing  by  recanting;  whether  the  name  itself, 
even  though  otherwise  innocent  of  crime,  should  be  punished, 
or  only  the  crimes  that  gather  round  it. 

In  the  meantime,  this  is  the  plan  which  I  have  adopted  in 
the  case  of  those  Christians  who  have  been  brought  before  me. 
I  ask  them  whether  they  are  Christians ;  if  they  say  yes,  then 
I  repeat  the  question  a  second  and  a  third  time,  warning  them 
of  the  penalties  it  entails ;  and  if  they  still  persist,  I  order  them 
to  be  taken  to  prison.  For  I  do  not  doubt  that,  whatever 
the  character  of  the  crime  may  be  which  they  confess,  their 
pertinacity  and  inflexible  obstinacy  certainly  ought  to  be 
punished.  There  were  others  who  showed  similar  mad  folly, 
whom  I  reserved  to  be  sent  to  Rome,  as  they  were  Roman 
citizens.1  Subsequently,  as  is  usually  the  way,  the  very  fact  of 
my  taking  up  this  question  led  to  a  great  increase  of  accusa- 
tions, and  a  variety  of  cases  were  brought  before  me.  A  pam- 
phlet was  issued  anonymously,  containing  the  names  of  a 
number  of  people.  Those  who  denied  that  they  were  or  had 
been  Christians  and  called  upon  the  gods  in  the  usual  formula, 
reciting  the  words  after  me,  those  who  offered  incense  and 
wine  before  your  image,  which  I  had  given  orders  to  be  brought 
forward  for  this  purpose,  together  with  the  statues  of  the 
deities  —  all  such  I  considered  should  be  discharged,  espe- 
cially as  they  cursed  the  name  of  Christ,  which,  it  said,  those 
1  Compare  the  case  of  the  Apostle  Paul.— EDS. 


140  PLINY   TO   THE   EMPEROR  TRAJAN 

who  are  really  Christians  cannot  be  induced  to  do.  Others, 
whose  names  were  given  me  by  an  informer,  first  said  that 
they  were  Christians  and  afterwards  denied  it,  declaring  that 
they  had  been  but  were  so  no  longer,  some  of  them  having 
recanted  many  years  before,  and  more  than  one  so  long  as 
twenty  years  back.  They  all  worshiped  your  image  and  the 
statues  of  the  deities,  and  cursed  the  name  of  Christ.  But 
they  declared  that  the  sum  of  their  guilt  or  their  error  only 
amounted  to  this,  —  that  on  a  stated  day  they  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  meet  before  daybreak  and  to  recite  a  hymn  among 
themselves  to  Christ,  as  though  he  were  a  god,  and  that  so  far 
from  binding  themselves  by  oath  to  commit  any  crime,  their 
oath  was  to  abstain  from  theft,  robbery,  adultery,  and  breach 
of  faith,  and  not  to  deny  trust  money  placed  in  their  keeping 
when  called  upon  to  deliver  it.  When  this  ceremony  was  con- 
cluded, it  had  been  their  custom  to  depart  and  meet  again  to 
take  food,  but  it  was  of  no  special  character  and  quite  harm- 
less, and  they  had  ceased  this  practice  after  the  edict  in  which, 
in  accordance  with  your  orders,  I  had  forbidden  all  secret 
societies.  I  thought  it  the  more  necessary,  therefore,  to  find 
out  what  truth  there  was  in  these  statements  by  submitting 
two  women,  who  were  called  deaconesses,  to  the  torture,  but  I 
found  nothing  but  a  debased  superstition  carried  to  great 
lengths.  So  I  postponed  my  examination,  and  immediately 
consulted  you.  The  matter  seems  to  me  worthy  of  your  con- 
sideration, especially  as  there  are  so  many  people  involved  in 
the  danger.  Many  persons  of  all  ages,  and  of  both  sexes 
alike,  are  being  brought  into  peril  of  their  lives  by  their 
accusers ;  and  the  process  will  go  on,  for  the  contagion  of 
this  superstition  has  spread  not  only  through  the  free  cities, 
but  into  the  villages  and  the  rural  districts,  and  yet  it  seems 
to  me  that  it  can  be  checked  and  set  right.  It  is  beyond 
doubt  that  the  temples,  which  have  been  almost  deserted,  are 


TRAJAN   TO    PLINY  141 

beginning  again  to  be  thronged  with  worshipers,  that  the 
sacred  rites  which  have  for  a  long  time  been  allowed  to  lapse 
are  now  being  renewed,  and  that  the  food  for  the  sacrificial 
victims  is  once  more  finding  a  sale,  whereas,  up  to  recently,  a 
buyer  was  hardly  to  be  found.  From  this  it  is  easy  to  infer 
what  vast  numbers  of  people  might  be  reclaimed  if  only  they 
were  given  an  opportunity  of  repentance. 


IV 
Trajan  to  Pliny1 

You  have  adopted  the  proper  course,  my  dear  Pliny,  in 
examining  into  the  cases  of  those  who  have  been  denounced 
to  you  as  Christians,  for  no  hard  and  fast  rule  can  be  laid 
down  to  meet  a  question  of  such  wide  extent.  The  Christians 
are  not  to  be  hunted  out ;  if  they  are  brought  before  you  and 
the  offense  is  proved,  they  are  to  be  punished,  but  with  this 
reservation  —  that  if  any  one  denies  that  he  is  a  Christian,  and 
makes  it  clear  that  he  is  not  by  offering  prayers  to  our  deities, 
then  he  is  to  be  pardoned  because  of  his  recantation,  however 
suspicious  his  past  conduct  may  have  been.  But  pamphlets 
published  anonymously  -must  not  carry  any  weight  whatever, 
no  matter  what  the  charge  may  be,  for  they  are  not  only  a 
precedent  of  the  very  worst  type,  but  they  are  not  in  con- 
sonance with  the  spirit  of  our  age. 

1  Answer  to  the  foregoing.  —  EDS. 


142      MADAME    DE    SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER 


Madame  de  Se'vigne'  to  her  Daughter1 

Paris,  Monday,  Dec.  15,  1670. 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  thing  the  most  astonishing,  the 
most  surprising,  the  most  marvelous,  the  most  miraculous,  the 
most  magnificent,  the  most  confounding,  the  most  unheard  of, 
the  most  singular,  the  most  extraordinary,  the  most  incredible, 
the  most  unforeseen,  the  greatest,  the  least,  the  rarest,  the 
most  common,  the  most  public,  the  most  private  till  to-day, 
the  most  brilliant,  the  most  enviable  ;  in  short,  a  thing  of  which 
there  is  but  one  example  in  past  ages,  and  that  not  an  exact 
one  neither ;  a  thing  that  we  cannot  believe  in  Paris  —  how 
then  will  it  gain  credit  at  Lyons?  —  a  thing  which  makes  every- 
body cry, '  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  ! '  a  thing  which  causes  the 
greatest  joy  to  Madame  de  Rohan  and  Madame  de  Hauterive  ; 
a  thing,  in  fine,  which  is  to  happen  on  Sunday  next,  when 
those  who  are  present  will  doubt  the  evidence  of  their  senses ; 
a  thing  which,  though  it  is  to  be  done  on  Sunday,  yet  perhaps 
will  be  not  finished  on  Monday.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to 
tell  you ;  guess  what  it  is ;  I  give  you  three  times  to  do  it  in. 
What,  not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog?  Well  then,  I  find  I 
must  tell  you.  Monsieur  de  Lauzun  is  to  be  married  next 

Sunday  at  the  Louvre,  to pray  guess  to  whom  !     I  give 

you  four  times  to  do  it  in ;  I  give  you  six ;  I  give  you  a  hun- 
dred. Says  Madame  de  Coulanges,  *  It  is  really  very  hard  to 
guess  ;  perhaps  it  is  Madame  de  la  Valliere.'  Indeed,  Madam, 
it  is  not.  « It  is  Mademoiselle  de  Retz,  then.7  No,  nor  she 
neither ;  you  are  extremely  provincial.  '  Lord  bless  me/  say 
you,  '  what  stupid  wretches  we  are  !  it  is  Mademoiselle  de 
Colbert  all  the  while.'  Nay,  now  you  are  still  farther  from 
the  mark.  'Why  then  it  must  certainly  be  Mademoiselle  de 

1  The  Comtesse  de  Grignan.  —  EDS. 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER      143 

Crequy.'  You  have  it  not  yet.  Well,  I  find  I  must  tell  you 
at  last.  He  is  to  be  married  next  Sunday,  at  the  Louvre, 
with  the  king's  leave,  to  Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle  de 
,  Mademoiselle  —  guess,  pray,  her  name  ;  he  is  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Mademoiselle,  the  great  Mademoiselle ;  Mademoiselle, 
daughter  to  the  late  Monsieur;  Mademoiselle,  granddaughter 
of  Henry  IV ;  Mademoiselle  d'Eu,  Mademoiselle  de  Dombes, 
Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier,  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans,  Made- 
moiselle, the  king's  cousin  german,  Mademoiselle,  destined 
to  the  throne,  Mademoiselle,  the  only  match  in  France  that 
was  worthy  of  Monsieur.  What  glorious  matter  for  talk  !  If 
you  should  burst  forth  like  a  Bedlamite,  say  we  have  told  you 
a  lie,  that  it  is  false,  that  we  are  making  a  jest  of  you,  and 
that  a  pretty  jest  it  is  without  wit  or  invention ;  in  short,  if 
you  abuse  us,  we  shall  think  you  quite  in  the  right ;  for  we 
have  done  just  the  same  things  ourselves.  Farewell,  you  will 
find  by  the  letters  you  receive  this  post  whether  we  tell  you 
truth  or  not. 

[VI 

Madame  de  Sfoigne  to  her  Daughter 

Paris,  Friday,  August  2,  1675. 

I  cannot  help  thinking,  my  dear,  of  the  astonishment  and 
grief  you  have  felt  at  the  death  of  M.  de  Turenne.  Cardinal 
de  Bouillon  is  inconsolable ;  he  heard  it  from  a  gentleman  of 
Louvigny's,  who,  willing  to  be  the  first  to  make  his  compli- 
ments of  condolence  on  the  occasion,  stopped  his  coach  as 
he  was  coming  from  Pontoise  to  Versailles.  The  Cardinal 
did  not  know  what  to  make  of  his  discourse ;  and  the  gentle- 
man, on  his  part,  finding  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter, 
made  off  as  fast  as  he  could.  The  Cardinal  immediately 
dispatched  one  of  his  people  after  him,  and  soon  learned  the 


144      MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER 

fatal  news,  at  which  he  fainted ;  he  was  carried  back  to  Pon- 
toise,  where  he  has  been  these  two  days  without  eating  a 
morsel,  passing  his  whole  time  in  tears  and  lamentations. 
Madame  de  Guene'gand  and  Cavoye  have  been  to  see  him, 
who  are  no  less  afflicted  than  himself.  I  have  just  written 
him  a  note,  which  I  think  pretty  good.  I  informed  him  of 
your  grief  upon  the  occasion,  both  from  the  interest  you  take 
in  all  that  concerns  him,  and  from  your  esteem  and  admira- 
tion for  the  deceased  hero.  Pray  do  not  forget  to  write  to 
him  yourself,  for  I  think  you  write  particularly  well  on  such 
subjects;  in  this  case,  indeed,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but 
give  a  loose  to  your  pen.  Paris  is  in  a  general  consternation 
of  grief  at  this  great  loss.  We  wait  in  great  anxiety  for 
another  courier  from  Germany.  Montecuculi,  who  was  retreat- 
ing, is  returned  back  and  doubtless  hopes  to  profit  not  a  little 
by  an  event  so  favorable  for  him. 

It  is  said  the  troops  uttered  cries  of  grief  that  might  have 
been  heard  at  the  distance  of  two  leagues,  when  news  was 
brought  them  of  their  general's  death.  No  consideration 
could  stop  them ;  they  insisted  upon  being  led  immediately 
to  the  fight ;  they  were  resolved  to  avenge  the  death  of  their 
father,  their  leader,  their  protector  and  defender ;  while  he 
was  with  them,  they  said,  they  feared  no  danger,  and  were 
determined  to  avenge  his  death.  <  So  lead  us  on,'  they  cried ; 
'  think  not  to  stop  us ;  we  are  bent  on  the  fight.'  This  I  had 
from  a  gentleman  who  belonged  to  M.  de  Turenne,  and  was 
sent  from  the  camp  to  His  Majesty.  He  was  bathed  in  tears 
while  he  related  this,  and  all  the  time  that  he  related  the 
circumstances  of  his  master's  death. 

The  ball  struck  M.  de  Turenne  directly  across  the  body. 
You  may  easily  imagine  he  fell  from  his  horse  and  expired ; 
but  he  had  just  life  enough  left  to  crawl  a  step  or  two  for- 
wards, and  clinch  his  hands  in  the  agonies  of  death ;  and  then 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER      145 

a  cloak  was  thrown  over  the  body.  Boisguyot,  which  is  the 
name  of  the  person  who  gave  us  this  account,  never  quitted 
him  till  he  was  carried,  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  to  the 
nearest  house. 

VII 
Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter 

Gien,  Friday,  October  i,  1677. 

We  took  a  trip  to-day  after  dinner  which  you  would,  have 
been  much  pleased  to  take  with  us.  In  the  afternoon  we 
were  to  have  taken  leave  of  our  good  company,  and  set  out 
each  on  a  different  road,  some  towards  Paris,  and  others 
towards  Autri.  This  good  company,  not  being  sufficiently 
prepared  for  this  dismal  separation,  had  not  the  power  to 
support  it,  and  would  absolutely  .accompany  us  to  Autri.  We 
laid  before  them  all  the  inconveniences  attending  such  a  step, 
but,  being  overpowered,  were  obliged  to  yield.  We  all  passed 
the  Loire  at  Chatillon;  the  weather  was  fine,  and  we  were 
delighted  to  see  the  ferry-boat  return  to  take  in  the  carriages. 
Whilst  we  were  on  board,  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
road  to  Autri ;  they  told  us  it  was  two  long  leagues,  consist- 
ing of  rocks,  woods,  and  precipices.  We,  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  such  fine  roads  ever  since  we  left  Moulins, 
were  somewhat  alarmed  at  this  account;  and  the  good  com- 
pany and  ourselves  repassed  the  river,  ready  to  die  with 
laughing  at  this  little  alteration ;  all  our  people  shared  in  the 
jest,  and  in  this  gay  humor  we  took  the  road  to  Gien,  where 
we  all  are  at  present.  After  consulting  our  pillows,  which  will 
in  all  likelihood  advise  us  to  make  a  bold  stroke  at  a  separa- 
tion, we  shall  go,  our  good  company  their  way,  and  we  ours. 

Yesterday  evening,  at  Cone,  we  visited  a  real  hell,  in  which 
are  the  forges  of  Vulcan.  Here  we  found  eight  or  ten 


146      MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER 

Cyclops  forging,  not  armor  for  ^Eneas,  but  anchors  for  ships. 
You  never  saw  the  blows  of  hammers  redound  so  exactly,  nor 
with  so  beautiful  a  cadence.  We  were  in  the  midst  of  four 
furnaces ;  these  demons  sometimes  surrounded  us  on  all  sides, 
melting  in  sweat,  with  pale  faces,  glaring  eyes,  mustachios 
like  bears,  long,  black,  and  bushy  hair;  this  was  a  sight  to 
terrify  persons  less  polite  than  ourselves.  For  my  own  part, 
I  saw  no  possibility  of  refusing  to  comply  with  the  will  and 
pleasure  of  these  gentry  in  their  infernal  regions.  At  length 
we  got  out  by  the  help  of  a  shower  of  silver,  with  which  we 
took  care  to  refresh  them,  to  facilitate  our  escape. 

We  saw,  the  evening  before,  at  Nevers,  the  boldest  race 
you  ever  beheld.  Four  ladies  in  a  coach,  happening  to  see  us 
pass  in  ours,  were  seized  with  so  strong  a  desire  to  behold  us 
once  more  that  they  must  needs  get  before  us,  whilst  we  were 
traveling  on  a  road  which  was  never  intended  for  more  than 
one  carriage.  My  child,  their  coachman  passed  us  so  rashly 
and  so  closely  as  almost  to  brush  our  whiskers;  they  were 
within  two  fingers'  breadth  of  tumbling  into  the  river ;  we  all 
cried  out,  '  Lord  have  mercy  ! '  They  burst  into  a  laugh,  and 
kept  galloping  on  before  and  above  us  in  so  frightful  a  man- 
ner that  we  have  scarce  recovered  from  our  panic  to  this  hour. 
These,  my  child,  are  our  most  remarkable  adventures ;  for  to 
tell  you  that  the  country  is  wholly  occupied  in  the  vintage 
would  be  no  very  surprising  news  in  the  month  of  September. 
Had  you  been  in  Noah's  case,  as  you  said  the  other  day,  we 
should  have  been  in  no  such  dilemma. 

I  must  say  a  word  of  my  health  :  it  is  as  good  as  you  could 
wish;  the  waters  have  performed  wonders,  and  I  find  you 
have  made  a  bugbear  of  the  pump.  Had  I  foreseen  this,  I 
should  have  been  more  on  my  guard  how  I  mentioned  it  to 
you;  it  gave  me  nothing  like  a  headache,  only  I  thought  I 
felt  my  throat  a  little  heated ;  and  as  I  did  not  sweat  much 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER      147 

the  first  time,  I  held  it  certain  that  I  had  no  need  of  that 
degree  of  .perspiration  I  underwent  last  year,  so  I  contented 
myself  with  large  draughts,  by  which  I  find  myself  perfectly 
recovered ;  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  these  waters. 

VIII 

Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  Daughter 

Paris,  Friday,  December  24,  1688. 

The  marquis  has  been  to  Versailles  alone,  where  he  con- 
ducted himself  extremely  well ;  he  dined  with  M.  du  Maine 
-at  M.  de  Montausier's ;  supped  at  Madame  d'Armagnac's ; 
paid  his  court  at  all  the  levees  and  all  the  couchees.  The 
Dauphin  ordered  him  the  wax  candlestick;  in  short,  he  is 
thrown  into  the  world,  and  he  acts  his  part  well.  He  is  in 
fashion,  and  never  had  any  one  so  fortunate  an  introduction, 
nor  so  high  a  reputation,  for  I  should  never  make  an  end  were 
I  to  tell  you  of  all  who  speak  well  of  him.  I  am  inconsolable 
to  think  you  have  not  the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  embracing 
him,  as  I  do  every  day. 

But  does  it  not  seem,  while  I  am  chatting  with  you  so 
calmly,  as  if  I  had  nothing  to  communicate?  Listen,  listen, 
I  say,  to  a  piece  of  news  that  is  scarcely  worth  the  trouble  of 
relating.  The  Queen  of  England  and  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
with  his  nurse  and  a  single  servant  to  rock  his  cradle,  are 
expected  here  to-morrow.  The  king  has  sent  his  carriages  to 
meet  them  upon  the  road  to  Calais,  where  the  queen  arrived  on 
Tuesday  last,  the  2ist  instant,  accompanied  by  M.  de  Lauzun. 
M.  Courtin,  who  is  just  returned  from  Versailles,  gave  us  the 
following  account  yesterday  at  Madame  de  la  Fayette's. 

You  know  that  M.  de  Lauzun  resolved  about  six  weeks  ago 
to  go  over  to  England;  he  could  not  better  employ  his 
leisure,  and  he  did  not  desert  the  king  of  England,  while  every 


148      MADAME    DE   SEVIGNE   TO   HER   DAUGHTER 

one  else  betrayed  or  abandoned  him.  In  short,  on  Sunday 
last,  the  1 9th  of  this  month,  the  king,  who  had  formed  his 
plan,  went  to  bed  as  usual,  dismissed  those  who  still  serve 
him,  and  rose  an  hour  later  to  order  a  valet  de  chambre  to 
introduce  a  man  whom  he  would  find  at  the  door  of  the  ante- 
chamber ;  this  was  M.  de  Lauzun.  The  king  said  to  him  : 
<  I  entrust  you  with  the  care  of  the  queen  and  my  son ;  you 
must  risk  everything,  and  endeavor  to  conduct  them  to 
France.'  M.  de  Lauzun  thanked  him,  as  you  may  suppose ; 
but  he  desired  to  take  a  gentleman  of  Avignon  with  him, 
named  St.  Victor,  known  to  possess  great  courage  and  merit. 
St.  Victor  took  the  little  prince  under  his  cloak ;  he  was  said 
to  be  at  Portsmouth  when  he  lay  concealed  in  the  palace. 
M.  de  Lauzun  gave  his  hand  to  the  queen  —  think  what  a 
leave-taking  hers .  must  have  been  with  the  king  !  —  and, 
accompanied  by  the  two  women  I  have  mentioned  to  you, 
they  went  into  the  street,  and  took  a  hackney  coach.  They 
afterward  sailed  down  the  river  in  a  little  boat,  where  they 
experienced  such  a  tempest  that  they  knew  not  what  would 
become  of  them.  At  length,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames, 
they  went  on  board  a  yacht,  M.  de  Lauzun  standing  by  the 
master,  intending,  if  he  proved  a  traitor,  to  throw  him  into 
the  sea.  But  as  he  supposed  he  had  only  common  passengers 
on  board,  which  was  most  frequently  the  case,  he  carelessly 
sailed  through  fifty  Dutch  ships,  who  did  not  even  notice  this 
little  bark ;  and  thus  protected  by  heaven,  and  sheltered  from 
the  threatened  danger,  she  landed  safely  at  Calais,  where 
M.  de  Charost  received  the  queen  with  all  the  respect  imagi- 
nable. The  courier,  who  brought  the  news  yesterday  at  noon 
to  the  king,  related  all  these  particulars ;  and  at  the  same 
time  orders  were  sent  to  dispatch  the  king's  carriages  to  meet 
this  queen,  and  conduct  her  to  Vincennes,  which  is  fitting  up 
for  her.  It  is  said  the  king  will  join  her  on  the  road. 


VOLTAIRE   TO    ROUSSEAU  149 

This  is  the  first  volume  of  the  romance ;  the  sequel  you 
shall  have  immediately.  We  have  just  been  assured  that,  to 
complete  the  adventure,  M.  de  Lauzun,  after  having  put  the 
queen  and  prince  safely  into  the  hands  of  M.  de  Charost,  pro- 
posed returning  to  England  with  St.  Victor,  to  share  the  sad  and 
miserable  fate  of  the  king.  I  admire  M.  de  Lauzun's  planet, 
which  will  again  render  his  name  brilliant  at  the  very  time  it 
appeared  to  be  sunk  in  oblivion.  He  carried  20,000  pistoles 
to  the  King  of  England.  This,  my  child,  is  indeed  a  very 
noble  and  heroic  action,  and  what  completes  it  is  his  return- 
ing to  a  country  where,  according  to  all  appearances,  he  will 
perish,  either  with  the  king,  or  by  the  rage  into  which  he  has 
thrown  the  people  by  the  last  stroke  he  has  played  upon 
them.  I  leave  you  to  reflect  upon  this  romance,  and  embrace 
you  with  more  than  common  affection. 

IX 

Voltaire  to  Rousseau 

August  30,  1755. 

I  have  received,  Sir,  your  new  book  against  mankind,1  and 
thank  you  for  it.  You  will  please  men,  to  whom  you  tell  the 
truth  about  themselves,  but  you  will  not  reform  them.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  paint  in  more  striking  colors  the  hor- 
rors of  human  society,  from  which  our  ignorance  and  weak- 
ness are  wont  to  promise  themselves  so  many  consolations. 
No  one  has  ever  employed  so  much  cleverness  in  attempting 
to  convert  us  into  beasts ;  one  is  actually  tempted  to  go  on 
all  fours  when  he  reads  your  book.  However,  as  I  have  been 
out  of  practice  for  more  than  sixty  years,  I  unfortunately  can- 
not help  feeling  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  resume  it,  and 
so  leave  this  natural  mode  of  locomotion  to  those  who  are 

1  The  Discourse  on  the  Origin  of  Inequality  among  Men. 


ISO  VOLTAIRE   TO   ROUSSEAU 

more  deserving  of  it  than  you  and  I.  Neither  can  I  embark 
in  search  of  the  savages  of  Canada,  first,  because  the  maladies 
with  which  I  am  afflicted  keep  me  in  the  vicinity  of  the  first 
physician  1  of  Europe,  and  I  should  not  find  the  same  relief 
among  the  Missouri  Indians ;  and,  secondly,  because  war  has 
been  carried  into  those  parts,2  and  the  example  of  our  coun- 
tries has  rendered  the  savages  almost  as  wicked  as  ourselves. 
I  confine  myself  to  being  a  peaceable  savage  in  the  solitude 3 
which  I  have  chosen  near  your  native  place,  where  you  your- 
self ought  properly  to  be. 

I  agree  with  you  that  literature  and  science  have  sometimes 
caused  much  evil.  The  enemies  of  Tasso  made  of  his  life  a 
tissue  of  misfortunes;  those  of  Galileo  made  him  sigh  in 
prison,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  for  having  known  of  the  earth's 
motion  —  and  what  is  more  disgraceful,  they  constrained  him 
to  a  recantation.  From  the  moment  your  friends4  began 
the  Encyclopedic  Dictionary,  those  who  dared  to  be  their 
rivals  qualified  them  as  '  Deists,'  *  Atheists,'  and  even  as 
'  Jansenists.' 

If  I  dared  to  reckon  myself  among  those  whose  works  have 
had  no  other  reward  than  persecution,  I  should  point  you  to 
those  who  have  been  bent  on  my  destruction  from  the  day 
when  I  published  the  tragedy  of  (Edipe ;  a  whole  library  of 
calumnies  printed  against  me;  an  ex-Jesuit  priest,5  whom  I 

1  Dr.  Trouchin  (1709-1781).     He  was  a  native  of  Geneva,  and  pupil  of  the 
celebrated  Boerhaave.  —  EDS. 

2  This  was  the  year  of  Braddock's  defeat  and  the  removal  of  the  Acadians. — 
EDS. 

3  Les  Delices,  just  outside  of  Geneva,  the  birthplace  of  Rousseau.  —  EDS. 

4  Of  whom  Diderot   was   the   chief ;   other  contributors  were  D'Alembert, 
Montesquieu,  Turgot,  and  Voltaire  himself.     The  first  volume  was  published  in 
1751.  —  EDS. 

6  This  was  Desfontaines  (1685-1745).  Accused  of  an  infamous  crime,  and 
thrown  into  prison,  he  would  have  been  sentenced  to  the  galleys  for  life  had  not 
Voltaire  interceded  for  him,  and  obtained  his  release.  Being  brought  on  one 


VOLTAIRE   TO   ROUSSEAU  151 

had  rescued  from  the  extremest  punishment,  rewarding  me 
with  defamatory  libels  for  the  service  which  I  had  rendered 
him ;  a  man  still  more  depraved  l  printing  my  work,  The  Age 
of  Louis  XIV)  with  notes  in  which  the  densest  ignorance 
spews  forth  the  most  infamous  impostures  ;2  another  who  sells 
to  a  publisher  chapters  of  a  pretended  Universal  History 
under  my  name ;  the  publisher  greedy  enough  to  print  this 
shapeless  mass  of  blunders,  false  dates,  mangled  facts  and 
names;  and,  finally,  men  cowardly  and  malicious  enough  to 
impute  to  me  the  publication  of  this  rhapsody.  I  should 
present  to  your  vision  the  pestilent  society  of  a  species  of 
men  unknown  to  all  antiquity,  who,  unable  to  adopt  an  honest 
employment,  whether  as  laborer  or  as  lackey,  and  unfortu- 
nately knowing  how  to  read  and  write,  become  courtiers  of 
literature,  live  upon  our  works,  steal  manuscripts,  disfigure 
them,  and  sell  them.  I  should  add  that,  to  crown  all,  I  have 
been  pillaged  of  part  of  the  materials  which  I  had  collected 
in  the  public  archives  when  I  was  historiographer  of  France, 
to  serve  in  the  composition  of  the  History  of  the  War  of  1741 ; 
that  this  fruit  of  my  labor  was  sold  to  a  Parisian  publisher; 
that  people  wrangle  over  my  property  as  if  I  were  already 
dead  ;  and  that  they  deface  it,  in  order  to  put  it  up  at  auction. 
I  should  paint  for  you  ingratitude,  imposture,  and  rapine 
pursuing  me  for  forty  years  to  the  very  foot  of  the  Alps,  to 
the  very  verge  of  my  tomb.  But  what  shall  I  conclude  from 
all  these  tribulations?  That  I  ought  not  to  complain;  that 
Pope,  Descartes,  Boyle,  Camoens,  and  a  hundred  more,  have 
endured  the  same  injustices,  and  even  greater  ones ;  that  this 

occasion  before  D'Argenson,  Intendant  of  Paris,  to  answer  some  accusation,  he 
sought  to  excuse  himself  by  saying,  '  But  I  must  live ' ;  to  this  D'Argenson  made 
the  famous  reply,  'I  don't  see  that  you  must'  (Je  n'en  vois  pas  la  necessite). — 
EDS. 

1  La  Beaumelle  (1726-1775). —  EDS. 

2  For  this  he  was  sent  to  the  Bastille.  —  EDS. 


152  VOLTAIRE   TO   ROUSSEAU 

fate  is  that  of  nearly  every  one  who  has  been  allured  too  far  by 
the  love  of  literature. 

Confess  after  all,  Sir,  that  these  are  petty  private  griefs 
which  society  at  large  scarcely  observes.  What  does  it  signify 
to  mankind  that  a  few  drones  pillage  the  honey  of  a  few  bees  ? 
Authors  make  great  ado  over  all  these  little  squabbles,  but  the 
rest  of  the  world  ignores  them,  or  turns  them  into  a  jest. 

Of  all  the  plagues  which  afflict  human  life,  these  are  the 
least  baneful.  The  thorns  attached  to  literature  and  to  a 
trifle  of  reputation  are  but  flowers  in  comparison  with  other 
evils,  which,  from  time  immemorial,  have  deluged  the  earth. 
Confess  that  neither  Cicero,  nor  Varro,  nor  Lucretius,  nor 
Virgil,  nor  Horace,  had  the  least  part  in  the  proscriptions. 
Marius  was  an  ignoramus ;  Sylla  the  barbarian,  Antony  the 
glutton,  Lepidus  the  imbecile,  did  not  pore  over  Plato  and 
Sophocles ;  and  as  for  that  timorous  tyrant,  Octavius  Csepias,1 
so  meanly  surnamed  Augustus,  he  was  a  detestable  assassin 
only  when  he  was  deprived  of  the  society  of  literary  men. 

Confess  that  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  did  not  set  on  foot  the 
troubles  of  Italy,  that  the  banter  of  Marot  did  not  produce 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  that  the  tragedy  of  The 
Cid  caused  nothing  more  serious  than  the  disorders  of  the 
Fronde.  Great  crimes  have  rarely  been  committed  by  any 
but  famous  blockheads.  What  makes,  and  always  will  make, 
this  world  a  vale  of  tears  is  the  insatiable  cupidity  and  uncon- 
querable pride  of  men,  from  Tahmasp  Kuli  Khan,2  who  could 
not  read,  to  a  clerk  in  the  custom-house,  who  can  do  nothing 
but  cast  accounts.  Literature  nourishes,  regulates,  and  con- 
soles the  mind ;  it  ministers  to  you,  Sir,  at  the  very  moment 

1  As  this  name  Caepias  rests  only  on  the  authority  of  a  single  passage  in 
Dio  Cassius  (45.1),  writing  in  Greek,  it  has  been  plausibly  conjectured  that  it  is 
a  clerical  mistake  for  Caesar.  —  EDS. 

2  Otherwise  Nadir  Shah  (1688-1747).     Originally  a  camel-driver,  he  became 
King  of  Persia,  and  captured  Delhi  in  1739.  — EDS. 


VOLTAIRE   TO    ROUSSEAU  153 

when  you  are  writing  against  it ;  you  are  like  Achilles  inveigh- 
ing against  glory,  or  like  Pere  Malebranche,  whose  brilliant 
imagination  declaimed  against  imagination. 

If  any  one  is  to  find  fault  with  literature,  it  should  be  I, 
since,  in  every  place,  it  has  served  to  persecute  me ;  but  we 
must  love  it  in  spite  of  the  abuse  which  is  made  of  it,  just  as 
we  must  love  society,  though  so  many  wicked  men  corrupt  its 
enjoyments ;  as  we  must  love  our  country,  no  matter  from 
what  injustice  we  suffer ;  as  we  must  love  and  serve  the 
Supreme  Being,  notwithstanding  the  superstitions  and  fanati- 
cism which  so  often  dishonor  this  worship. 

Mr.  Chappuis  tells  me  that  your  health  is  very  bad ;  you 
ought  to  come  and  regain  it  in  your  natal  air,  enjoy  liberty, 
drink  with  me  the  milk  of  our  cows,  and  browse  on  our  grass. 

I  am,  very  philosophically,  and  with  the  greatest  esteem,  etc. 


INDEX 


Theniena 

Addison,  Joseph  (1672-1719),  I. 
Arnold,  Matthew  (1822-1888),  109, 

"3- 

Austen,  Jane  (i775-l8l7>.  55»  6l- 
Brooks,  Phillips  (1835-1893),  94, 

95, 106,  118. 

Byron,  Lord  (1788-1824),  54. 
Carroll,   Lewis  (1832-1898),    105, 

121. 

Cicero  (106-43  BLC.),  135. 
Cowper,  William  (1731-1800),  29, 

3°»  32.  33*  36.  3s- 
Dickens,  Charles  (1812-1870),  93. 
Dodgson,  C.  L.     See  Lewis  Car- 

rolL 
Emerson,   Ralph    Waldo    (1803- 

1882),  no. 
Fitzgerald,   Edward   (1809-1883), 

77.79.  f«6.  118. 
Franklin,  Benjamin   (1706-1790), 

18,  21,  27,  28u 

Gray,  Thomas  (1716-1771),  10,  12, 

23.26. 
Hallam,     Arthur    Henry    (iSn- 

l833>»  74- 
Hawthorne,     Nathaniel      (1804- 

1864),  89, 

Heber,  Reginald  (1783-1826),  46. 
Hood,   Thomas    (1798-1845)   75, 

77,  83,  84- 


5  are  to  pages 

Huxley,   Thomas 
1895),  I04- 


Henry    (1825- 


Johnson,  Samuel  (1709-1784),  19^ 

--• 

Keats,  John  (1795-1821),  61,64,66. 
Lamb,   Charles    (1775-1834),  4^ 

44.  TO.  72,  7S 
Lincom,    Abraham    (1809-1865), 

97.  9»,  99.  ««x 
Livingstone,   David   (1817-1873), 

100. 

Longfellow,    Henry    Wadsworth 

(1807-1882),  81,  112. 
Lowell,    James     Russell    (1819- 

1891),  85,  90,  121,  127. 
Montagu,    Mary   Wortley   (1687- 

1762),  2,  4,  7. 

Nelson,  Horatio  (1758-1805),  41.. 
PHny  the  Younger  (62-113),  137, 

138. 

Pope,  Alexander  (1688-1744),  2. 
Rogers,  Samuel  (1763-1855),  57- 
Sevigne,  Madame  de  (1626-1696), 

142,  143,  145,  147. 
Shelley  (1792-1822),  63. 
Shenstone,  William  (1714-1763), 

14- 
Southey,  Robert  (i774-i«43>.  4^ 


'55 


156  INDEX 

Starr,  Ellen  G.,  129.  Voltaire  (pseudonym  for  Fran9ois 

Stevenson,  Robert    Louis   (1850-  Arouet),  (1694-1778),  149. 

1894),    102,    no,  114,  116,   123,  Walpole,  Horace  (1717-1797),  21, 

124-  23,  24,  35. 

Swift,  Jonathan  (1667-1745),  9.  Washington,  George  (1732-1799), 

Tennyson,     Alfred     (1809-1892),  40. 

105.  Wolfe,  James  (1727-1759),  16 
Trajan  (c.  53-117),  141. 


UNT""" 


